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ENGLISH EZTEASTS 



FROM 



THE BEST CLASSICAL AUTHORS, 



CONSISTING OF 



MORAL, AMUSING AND INSTRUCTIVE ANECDOTES, PIECES OF PROSE 

FROM THE MOST POPULAR WRITERS, SCENES OF COMEDIES, AND A SE 

LECTION OF POETRY; 



THE WHOLE PRECEDED BY 

A NEW METHOD CALCULATED TO FACILITATE THE PRONUNCIATION 
OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, 



By S. WARRAND, 



Teacher of the English language and literature to THEIR IMPE- 
RIAL HIGHNESSES ; lecturer at the University and Imperial 
Law-College; Knight of the orders of S l Anne, 2 nd class, S l Sta- 
nislaus, 2 nd class; and of St Vladimir, 4ti> class. 



2nd edition 



ENLARGED AND IMPROVED. 



ST. PETERSBURG. 

Printed by A. Pluchart, and sold by Hauer & C°, booksellers, 
Nefsky Prospect, Petiliat's house, JW 5: and at Moscow by Urbain 

& C° 






PERMITTED TO BE PRINTED 



on deposing the usual number of copies at the committee of Cen 
sure. St. Petersburg the 28 October -1840. 



TO HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS 
THE GRAND DUKE 

ALEXANDER NICOLAEVITCB, 

CESAREVITCH AND HEIR APPARENT TO 
THE THRONE OF ALL THE RUSSIAS. 

Your Imperial Highness, 

In presenting a second edition of my ((En- 
glish Extracts , » I cannot help expressing a hope 
that the first may have been of some assistance, 
in facilitating your early lessons in the English 
language. 

Should Your Imperial Highness deign to look 
into this second edition, in which I have made 
considerable changes, it will doubtless recall to 
your mind a more interesting branch of your 
English studies , that of the history of English 
literature, which it was a most delightful part of 
my duty to draw up and read with you, in the 
more advanced stage of your knowledge of our 
language. 

I cannot conclude this humble dedication^ with- 
out offering to Your Imperial Highness, my 
warmest and most grateful thanks, for the uniform 
condescension, kindness and attention you have ever 
deigned to show me, in common with all who 
had the honour of contributing to your education. 

I have the honour to be , 
With the most profound respect and gratitude , 
Your Imperial Highness's 
Most devoted, faithful and humble servant, 

S. WARRAND. 



TO THE 1 st EDITION 



Some apology is perhaps necessary on presenting 
another English Selection to the public. England 
has its u Elegant Extracts;" France its "Cours de 
Litterature Anglaise/' by Noel; and Germany its 
u Handbuch der Englischen sprache und literatur, ' 
by Ideler and Nolte." Though all these are very 
excellent works, and highly merit the popularity 
they enjoy, yet their being exclusively directed to 
the higher branches of literature, and consequently 
containing nothing sufficiently easy for beginners , 
together with their expense, preclude their general 
introduction into schools. It is therefore to be hoped 
the following compilation will not be found 
useless, as its aim is to avoid the above objections ; 
and as it is calculated, as much as such a work can 
be , to facilitate the speaking of the English lan- 
guage, an object which has not been, I believe , 
attended to in any othei 4 . 

It is divided into four parts: the first containing a 
Collection of moral and amusing Anecdotes; the se- 
cond , Pieces of Prose , from the most classical au- 
thors; the third, Scenes taken from the best Come- 
dies; and the fourth, a Selection of Verse : the whole 
exhibiting (as far as the compass of so small a work 
will admit) specimens of the best English writers, 
including those of the present day; and it may thus 
be considered as a slight introduction to literature. 



VI 



I must also add, that one of my principal objects has 
been to choose such pieces as would interest the scho- 
lar; whilst I hope it will be found, that I have no- 
where neglected sound morality , so necessary to be 
observed in every work destined for the hands of 
young people. 

As this volume forms part of a larger work (Cours 
pratique de langue Anglaise) , it is necessary that I 
should enter into a fuller explanation with regard to 
its use, and the object for which it is intended. 

One of the greatest difficulties to foreigners in ac- 
quiring our language, has always been the pronun- 
ciation, and which indeed, until now, has been con- 
sidered an insurmountable one; but I flatter myself, 
that if I have not quite conquered this, I have at least 
rendered it comparatively easy, by the table of 
sounds prefixed to this volume ; and I dare venture 
to promise the student , that by a little patience and 
perseverance during the first lessons, in applying it 
diligently, according to the directions which precede 
it, he may acquire as good a pronunciation as the fa- 
cility granted him by nature , and the age at which 
he commences, will allow, in one fourth of the time 
generally devoted to this branch. To this table I have 
added some rules ; they are but few , as I did not 
wish to burden the memory of the scholar by those 
to which there are perhaps almost as many excep- 
tions as examples. 

The Collection of anecdotes may be employed for 
several purposes : if the scholar is quite a beginner, 
they may be used only as reading lessons , marking 
carefully the words badly pronounced, and transla- 
ting them as he goes on: if he has already some little 
knowledge of the language , he may , after having 
read one over two or three times , repeat it aloud in 
the words before him ; or such others as may occur 



VII 



to him ; and this may, at the same time, serve as an 
introduction to exercises of conversation , which his 
master may vary hy any little questions arising from 
the subject before him: they may also be committed 
to memory, and thus furnish his mind with familiar 
words and phrases, more agreeably than the common 
books of dialogues. 

The second part, consisting of Pieces of Prose from 
our best classical authors, may advantageously serve 
the scholar, when sufficiently advanced , as subjects 
and models of composition. 

The Scenes of Comedies, forming the third part , 
are intended to be learned by heart. This I have 
invariably found to be of the highest benefit, as it 
stores the mind with a great variety of familiar phra- 
ses and idioms, by far the most difficult thing to ac- 
quire in any language, and more particularly in the 
English. 

The committing of pieces of poetry to memory , 
has always, I believe, been considered advantageous 
in the study of a language 5 I have consequently ad- 
ded a fourth part, consisting of a Selection from 
our best Poets, a large portion of which has been 
devoted to those now living, as they seem to occu- 
py so much, and so deservedly, the attention of all 
nations. Apart of these only are intended to be learn- 
ed by heart , and the rest as reading lessons , and 
samples of our poets; those perhaps at the beginning 
will be found the fittest for the former purpose; but 
a good master will select such as are best adapted 
to the age and taste of his pupil. 

It had been at first my intention to have added a 
Vocabulary of the words contained in this volume , 
similar to that at the end of the one I have arranged 
for translations from French into English ; but as it 



VIII 

will only be used during the lessons, the master will 
be the best dictionary the pupil can consult. 

In making the above Selection, I have frequently 
been obliged to make considerable alterations, by 
abridging the originals from which the pieces are 
selected; but the text has always been sacred to me, 
except in the scene from the "Man of the World, " 
which I have translated into English from broad 
Scotch, for reasons which I presume require no ex- 
planation, and the correction of some few expres- 
sions which ought not to exist in a work of this 
nature. 



PREFACE 

TO THE 2 nd EDITION 



The rapid progress which the study of the En- 
glish language has beenmaking for some years in this 
capital , and the encreasing desire of a more gene- 
ral knowledge of our literature - a literature cer- 
tainly not surpassed by that of any modern nation — 
has induced me to make very considerable changes 
in these « Extracts)), which I have now endeavour- 
ed to reduce to a sort of manual , serving as an in- 
troduction to English literature, at least in as far as 
an elementary work of so small a size would allow 
me to go. 

For this purpose I have added to the 1 st part a 
selection of literary anecdotes, in order to render 
the names of our great writers familiar to the stu- 
dent ; and in the three other parts , namely Select 
pieces of Prose, Scenes of Comedies, and Select pieces 
of Poetry > I have introduced extracts from nearly 
all our great classics , together with as many from 
the moderns as my space would permit: thus giving 
the master an opportunity of naming , and saying a 
few words on at least a large majority of our best 
authors. 

I had at first intended to have classified them, 
and given a slight notice of each ; but I found that 
this would not only swell the volume to too great a 



size, but would also destroy my original plan of pre- 
senting each piece as much as possible according to 
its progressive difficulty. I therefore determined 
to publish these notices apart, at some future period, 
under another form; when my only hope will be 
that they may contribute to extend a knowledge of 
a literature founded on good sense and sound mo- 
rality; and bear out, what I have already advanced, 
that we are not surpassed by any modern nation, 
whether it be in works of morality, in history, poetry _, 
the drama, philosophy and the sciences, or even in 
the lighter compositions, as novels etc. 



tt&atii-i 



DES SONS DE LA LANGUE ANGLAISE. 



MANIERE DE S'EN SERVIR. 

L'ecolier doit lire a table plusieurs fois et a haute voix avec 
un Anglais, jusqu'a ce qu'il ait appris a connailre tous les sons 
et les chiffres necessaires a les rappeler; il doit enfaire Vappli- 
cation dans toutes ses lecons, marquant les syllabes mal pronon- 
cees avec le chiffre qui correspond au son de la leitre > et parti- 
culierement dans la lecture et dans tout ce quit doit apprendre 
par coeur ; — par exemple, dans la phrase suivante: "What shall 
he do next, les mots what, shall et do seront probablement les seuls 
qu'il prononcera mal; en consequence il les marquera des chifjres 
4, 2 et 6, qui lui indiqueront la vraie maniere de les prononcer. 

N- B — Les lettres russes correspondent aux sons anglais. 
A (e) a quatre sons formes en ouvrant davantage la bouche a 
chaque son: 



a — ei 

2 


face 
figure 


late 
tard 


take male 
prendre male 


name 
nom 


fate 
destin 


A 


fat 
gras 


cat 
chat 


hat bag 
chapeau sac 


glass 
verre 


mad 
fou 


a — a 


far 
loin 


bar 
barre 


star ah! 
etoile ah! 


car 
char 


dart 
dard 


A 

E (i) 


all 

tout 
a trois 


fall 
chute 
sons : 


ball small 
bal petit 


bald 
chawe 


what 
quoi 


E — H 


me 
moi 


tree 
arbre 


he she 
il elle 


scene 
scene 


been 
ete 


e — e 


bed 
lit 


best 
meilleur 


bled met bent 
saigne .rencontre f lie 


net 
filet 



XI 



E [muet) open able table token spoken 

ouvert capable table gage parle 

I (ai) a irois sons: 
i 

i — an time vice fine mild life mile 

temps Vice beau doux vie mille 

i — h pin fit pit begin win 

epingle acces fosse commencer gagner 

i — h machine magazine chagrin 

machine magasin chagrin 
O (o) a cinq sons: 



heaven 
del 



o 

2 




no 
non 


hope 
espoir 


bone 

OS 


bold 
hardi 


note 
note 


globe 
globe 


0- 

s 


-0 


nor 
ni 


for 
car 


lord before 
seigneur avant 


shore 
cote 


snore 
ronfler 


o - 


-0 


not 
non 


hot 
chaud 


clock lot 
pendule sort 


trot 
trotter 


dog 
chien 


4 

o 

K 




love son 
amour fds 


come 
venir 


done 
fail 


glove 
gant 


dove 
colombe 


O - 


-y 


move prove 
mouvoirprouver 


lose 
perdre 


do 
faire 


to 
a 


mood 
humeur 


U 


(iou) a trois sons : 










i 
u- 

3 


-iy 


mule 
mulet 


mute 
muet 


cube 
cube 


tune 
air 


dispute 
dispute 


music 
musique 


U 




dust 
poussie 


duck 
re canard 


gun 
fusil 


mud 
boue 


run 
courir 


dull 
triste 



u — y rude true prude 

rude vrai prude 

Y (ouai) a les memes sons que VI, cxcepte au commencement 
des mots: 

yes yet you young York 

oui cependantvous ieizne York 

W (dobliou): \ 



j well 
bien 



wall week when 

muraille semaine quand 



what wine 
<juoi vin 



XII 



w — ay how vow 

comment vceu 



now cow bow 

apresent vache reverence 



w — o blow flow mow slow bow 

coup couler faucher lent arc 



town 
ville 

grow 
eroitre 



REGLES SUR LES VOYELLES. 

dans la terminaison des mots est genemlement muet 7 excepie 
dans les mots de dzux letlres seulemeut, comme be etre 
quoique muet, a le pouvoir d'allonger la voyelle qui le pre- 
cede, quand une consonne se trouve e^itre, comme — 
fat fate, pin pine, not note, run mule, 

gras dtstin epingle pin non note courir mulet 



E dans les preterits et participes des verbes est muet , comme 
dans — 
loved hoped missed dined begged proved 
aime esperait manque dinait prie prouve 

Excepte. quand la terminaison est en ted ou ded comme 
hated amended waited offended plotted spotted 
ha'i ameliore attendait offense complotte tachete 

W au commencement d'un mot et suivi d'un r est muet, comme 
write 
ecrire 



B (bi) n'a qiCun son, comme en francais • 

// est genemlement muetidevant t, comme— debt subtle 

dette subtil 

apres m, comme — dumb comb 

muet peigne 

C (ci) atrois sons: 



civil 

civil 

cat 

chat 



face 
figure 



ice place 

glace place 



victim cage 
victime cage 



c — m 



spacious social \Il a ce son lorsquil est sum de deux 
spacieux social ) voyelles. 



XIII 



ch a trois sons 

i 



ch — qr chin cheese chapel chest much cheap 

mentonfromage chapelle coffre beaucoup bon marche 

ch — in chaise machine chagrin 
cabriolet machine chagrin 

ch — k monarch scheme character christian 

monarque projet reputation chretien 

P (di) a trois sons: 
t 

d — A deed had had feed 

jait mauvais eu nourrir 

d — t stuifed learned \ Ilabien souvent ceson dansles preterits, 

rempli appris ) et participes des verbes. 

5 

d — 45K education soldier immediately 

education soldat tout de suite 

F [effe) se prononce comme enfranqais, excepte dans le mot of, 

qui se prononce ov. 
G (dgi) a deux sons: 

g «~ r get bag pve garden 

gagner sac donner jardin 

g — 42c ginger genious age page 

gingembre genie age P a g e 

gh quoique muet rend la syllabe longue : design sign 

dessein signe 
gn —Leg se prononce quand il est a la fin d'une syllabe: ignorau t signify 

ignorant signijier 

gii auicommencement d'un jnot se prononce comme g: ghost 

t * 

gh quoique muet rend la syllabe longue: might right 

pouvoir droit 

gh — <& cough rough enough laugh 

toux rude assez rire 

H (aitch) a deux sons: 
i 

a (aspire) hat him hen hemp his hope 

chapeau lui poule chanvre son espoir 

h (muet) hour heir heiress vilest peu de mots ou Fh 

heure ^heritier heritiere) ne soit pas aspire. 

J {dge) a le son de g: 

J - 45K James Jamaica judge just 

Jacque Jamaique juge juste 



XIV 



K (he) a le son de: c 



king keep take 

roi garder prendre 



'muet) 



est loujours muet devant n: knife knee knot 

couteau genou nceud 
(elle) se prononce camme en francais. 
est quelquefois muet: talk walk half ^ calm 

parler marcher moitie calme 
N eZ P se pronorcent comme en franqais : 
(kiou) a deux sons: 



queen 
reine 



equal 
egal 



q— k conquer liquor 

vaincre liqueur 
R a quatre sons: 



-P 



roar 
rugir 

bar 

barre 



rude 
rude 

for 
car 



quick 

vite 



droll 

drole 

nor 
ni 



quote 
cilei 



ripe 
mur 

shore 
cote 



reap 

moissonner 

before lord 
avant seigneur 



liar 
menteur 



iron 
fer 



her 
son 

fire 
feu 



spur 



fi / Ici Z'r se prononce tres- 
r \peu et la voyelle quile 
eperon sapin | precede 2 se prononce 
\ comme u 

[Ici la voyelle qui suit 
sabre hire \ Vr se change aussi en 

1 v, mais elle se pro- 
sabre louerj nonce comme si elle 

[ etait avant Z'r. 

B. Comme cette leWe est \ la plus difficile de T alphabet an- 
glais, Vecolier doit y f aire la plus grande attention, et 
ne pas oublier que partout oil il trouvera un r, a moins 
que cela ne soit au commencement d\m mot ou precede 
de * ou o, il a presque toujours le meme son, c'est-a-dire 
celui indique par les chifjres 3 ou 4. 

quatre sons : 



samt 
saint 



rose 
rose 



sister sun supper \ 1 1 a loujours ce son au com- 
sceur soleilsouper ) mencement des mots. 

f It ace son a la fin des mots,et 

his trees hees ) surtout dans les nomsauplu- 

lui arbres abeilles) riel,etalatroisiemepcrsonne 

\ du singulier des verves. 



XV 



s — jk pleasure measure 
plaisir mesure 

s — hi conversion sure sugar assure 
conversion sure imcre assurer 

T se prononce comme e>i franqais. 

i 

tu — q se prononce tch quand la voyelle precedente est accentuee 

nature creature 
nature creature 
mais pas autrement — opportunity importunity 

occasion importunite 

th a deux sons. 
i 

TH the then that breathe father thus heathen 

le done ce respirer pere ainsi pa'ien 

th think tooth moth bath breath south 

penser dent teigne bain haleine sua 

V (vi) comme en franqais. 

X (ex) 

x — 3 Xenephon Xenocrates 
Xenophon Xenoerate 

x — kc exercise excellence 
exercice excellence 



x — r3 exertion exist 

effort exister 

x — kih noxious anxious \ll a ce son lorsquil est suivi de deux 
nuisible inquiet ) voyelles. 

Z (zed) se prononce comme enfrancais. 

N. B. Je n'airien ditsur les diphthongues; le moyen dont je mesers dans 
mes lecons , lorsque l'eleve en rencontre une, e'est d'effacer la 
voyelle qui ne se prononce pas, et de marquer l'autre d'a- 
pres le son necessaire; il y a peu de cas ou cela ne suffise pas. 



o 



• ANECDOTES, 

historical, Cttetdrt) anh facetious 



JUSTICE SUPERIOR TO VALOUR— AGESILA13S. 

Agesilaus was asked , whether courage or justice 
was the greater virtue? « There wouId.be no occasion 
for valour, if all men were just, » replied the king. 

GARRULITY — ZBNO. 

Zeno thus addressed a talkative youth: « Nature 
gave us two ears and one mouth, that we might hear 
much and taik little. » 

GAMING. — PLATO. 
i 

When Plato reproved a young man for playing 

at dice, «What, for such a trifle »! exclaimed the 

youth. uCustom,)) answered Plato, «is no trifle. » 

THE CITIZEN. 

A man, avIio had been all his life in Paris, finding 
himself in an excursion on the banks of the Loire, 
exclaimed, «Upon my word, a very pretty river for 
-a country place. -» 

1 



I ANECDOTES. 

GOOD EFFECTS OF MEDICINE — MOLIERE. 

<(IIow are you with your physician? » said a noble- 
man to Moliere. «We have,» said he,» very agreea- 
ble conversations together, when I am ill; he gives 
me medicine, I do not take it, and I get well.» 

EASY AND DIFFICULT — THALES. 

Thales being asked, what were the most difficult 
and the easiest things in the world, replied, «The 
most difficult is,, to learn to knoAV oneself, and the 
easiest, to find the actions of others blameable.» 

ON VOWS — SIGISMOND. 

The emperor Sigismond being one day asked, what 
was the surest method of remaining happy in this 
world, replied, «Only do always in health, what you 
have often promised to do when you were sick. » 

SUPERIORITY OF WEALTH. 

A rich upstart once asked a poor but witty person, 
if he had any idea what kind of a thing opulence was? 
• It is a thing,» replied the wit, « which can give a 
rogue the advantage over an honest man.» / 

BRAVE ATHENIAN. 

An Athenian who wanted eloquence, but was very 
brave, when another had, in a long and very bril- 
liant speech, promised great affairs, rose up and said; 
uMen of Athens, all that he fias said, I will do;» 



ANECDOTES. 3 

USELESS HURRY. 

A soldier, who was being led to death, seeing a 
crowd of people running towards the place of exe- 
cution , cried to them, «Do not be in such a hurry, 
for nothing can be done without me.» 

REAL POWER — DUKE OF ORLEANS. 

The Duke of Orleans, on being appointed Regent 
of France, insisted on possessing the power of par- 
doning. «I have no objection,)) said he, «to have my 
hands tied from doing harm, but I will have them 
free to do good. » 

MAGNANIMOUS ANSWER — SIGISMOND. 

Some courtiers reproached SJgismond, that instead 
of destroying his conquered, fees^, he admitted 
them to favour. «Do I not ;,» replied the monarch, 
« effectually destroy my enemies, when I make them 
my friends?)) 

GALLANT REMARK— FONTENELLE. 

The Ducbess of Maine once asked Fontenelle, what 
was the difference between a watch and a woman? He 
immediately answered, without the least hesitation, 
«A watch points out the time, but your highness 
makes us forget it.» 

i 

A LEGACY RY ANTICIPATION. 

A nobleman, a man of wit, making his will, be* 
queatbed legacies to all his domestics for their long 
and faithful services. «As to my steward,)) added he, 



ANECDOTES. 



((I shall leave him nothing, he has served me more 
than forty years. » 

TRUE COURAGE. 

A man , relating the different misfortunes he had 
met with, added , « And what would you have done 
in such misery?» «I would have put an end to my 
life,)> said the other, vauntingly. «I did still more,» 
replied the first, «I dared to live on.» . 

FENELON AND BOSSUET. 

It was disputed in company, which of these emi- 
nent persons had been of the greatest use to religion; 
when a lady decreed, with great acuteness and ele- 
gance : «Bossuet makes you understand your reli- 
gion, and Fenelon makes you love it, » 

SLOW POISON — FONTENELLE. 

A doctor maintained before Fontenelle , who 
was then nearly a hundred years old, and who was 
very fond of coffee, that it was a slow poison. «It 
must be very slow, » said Fontenelle, « for I have drunk 
it, nearly every day, for more than eighty years past. » 

CESAR. 

When Caesar was advised by his friends to be more 
cautious of the security of his person, and not to walk 
among the people without arms or any one to defend 
him, he replied, «He that lives in fear of death, feels 
its torture every rrloment; I will die but once. » 

■ 



ANECDOTES. O 

A MISTAKE IN VALUE. 

A peasant who thought that the value of a watch 
consisted in its size, bought the largest he could find; 
and seeing a small repetition watch lying beside it, 
he said to the master of the shop, «But you must 
give me this into the bargain. » 

GOOD QUALITIES ILL APPLIED. 

Agesilaus* seeing a malefactor endure the greatest 
torments with wonderful constancy, cried out with 
indignation, - — «What an audacious villain is this, 
who dares employ patience, courage, and magnani- 
mity, in such an infamous and dishonest cause. » 

PLEBEIAN PLEASANTRY. 

A man, who was very fat, coming late in the eve- 
ning to a fortified city, and meeting with a country- 
man, asked him if he could get in at the gate. «I be- 
lieve so,» said the peasant, looking at him jocosely, 
« for I saw a waggon of hay go in this morning. )> 

SOME COMFORT. 

i 

An author, endowed with more philosophy than is 
generally attributed to the irritable race, on reading 
some ill- written pamphlets against him, exclaimed^ 
mNo.w I ought to thank these gentlemen , for proving 
to the public, that others can write worse than myself. » 

USE OF PHILOSOPHY — PLATO. 

Dionysius the younger, being banished from his 
throne at Syracuse, was asked bv a % Greek, « What use 



6 ANECDOTES. 

the philosophy of Plato had been to him? » He answer- 
ed, «It has taught me to look on my change of fortune 
wilhout surprise, and to bear it without complaint. 

LORD RUSSEL. 

Lord Russel , who was beheaded in the reign of 
Charles I, when on the scaffold, delivered his watch 
to Dr. Burnet, with this fine expression: «Here, take 
this, it shows time; I am going into eternity, and 
shall no longer have any need of it. 

DOUBLE PRICE — SOCRATES. 

A great talker, wishing to study rhetoric under So- 
crates, this philosopher asked him double the price 
of what he received from others. Upon his asking him 
the reason of this, Socrates answered, ((Because 1 shall 
have to teach youfo speak, and to hold your tongue. » 

THE VISIT -r- BOILEAU. 

Boileau was one day visited by a noble and unpro- 
fessional person, who reproached him with not hav- 
ing returned his first visit. »You and I, » said the sa- 
tirist, « are in different positions; I lose my time when 
I pay a visit, you only get rid of your's when you do so. 

BUCHANAN AND JAMES I. 

Buchanan, the author of the history of Scotland^ 
was tutor to the pedantic James I. When he was 
once reproached for having made the King a pedant, 
he replied, «that it was the best he could make of 
him » 



ANECDOTE S, / 

ADDISON ON HIS DEATH-BED. 

Addison, wishing to reform the young Earl of 
Warwick, sent for him when on his death-bed; 
and, when the young man desired to hear his last 
injunctions, he only said : « I have sent for you that 
you might see how a Christian can die». 

LORD CHESTERFIELD. 

The last words of Lord Chesterfield are exem- 
plary of his life; as if he were to preach polite- 
ness even on his death-bed. His valet, opening his 
curtain, announced M r Dayroles. «Give Dayroles a 
chair.» said his lordship. He never spoke more. 

NEVER MIND ME — ARISTOTLE. 

A garrulous fellow, who was speaking with Aris- 
totle, observed that the philosopher made no answer 
to what he was saying: «I am troublesome, perhaps, » 
said he, «and turn your attention from more serious 
thoughts.)) «No,» answered the philosopher, «go on, 

for I am not listening to you. )> 

i 

PROGRESS OF AVARICE -# SWIFT, BOLING- 
BROKE, 

Dean Swift, in a conversation with Lord Boling- 
broke concerning economy, told his lordship, it was 
always good to have money in the head^ though not 
in the heart. «Dear doctor, » replied Bolingbroke, «he 
that has money in his head ? cannot prevent its des- 
cending into his heart. » 



O ANECDOTES. 

THE IMPATIENT PATIENT. 

An officer, being wounded in the knee by a mus- 
ket-ball, the surgeons made many incisions. Losing 
patience at last, he asked them , why they carved 
and cut him so cruelly ? « We are seeking for the ball, » 
said they. « Why did you not speak before, » said the 
officer, « I have it in my pocket. » 

INCREDULITY. 

A gentleman, telling a very strange and impro- 
bable story , and observing one of the company look 
as if he doubted the truth of what he asserted, said, 
«Zounds, sir., I saw the thing happen. » « If you did, » 
answered the gentleman, «'I must believe it; but I 
should not, if i had seen it myself. » 

MILITARY BON MOT. 

When the Duke of Bedford approached within a 
league of Verneuil, before which the French were en- 
camped, he sent a herald to offer them battle; and at 
the same time bid them tell' Douglas , that he was 
coming to take a morsel with him. Douglas coolly 
replied, «That he should find the cloth laid. » 

DOMINICO. 

Dominico, the harlequin, going to see Louis XIV, 
at supper, fixed his eyes on a dish of partridges. 
The king, who was fond of his acting, said, «Give 
that dish to Dominico. » « And the partridges 
too, Sire?» Louis, penetrating his art, replied, 
«and the partridges too.» The dish was gold. 



ANECDOTES. 9 

TWO SIDES. - CROMWELL. 

After Cromwell's first coinage, an old adherent 
of the royal party, seeing one of the new pieces, 
having on one side the inscription, «God with us,» 
and on the other, the arms of the republic of 
England, said, «it may be seen by this, that God 
and the republic are not on the same side. » 

MOCK GRAVITY. — LOCKE. 

Locke, the philosopher, was mild and engaging 
in his manners, cheerful and gay in his exterior, 
and despised that affected appearance of gravity 
which so many assume. He used to say « that gra- 
vity is a mystery of the body , invented to con- 
ceal the defects of the mind.» 

GREAT MINISTERS. — WALLER, JAMES II. 

Waller having one day asserted before James II, 
that he thought queen Elisabeth the greatest wo- 
man in the world, the king said, «'I wonder you 
should think so , though it must be confessed she 
had a wise council.)) «And when, sire», replied 
Waller. « did vou ever know a fool choose a wise one? » 



y° 



THE HAT. 



A bishop was tormented by the desire of being a 
cardinal. He envied the good health of his treasurer 
and said, «How do you manage to be always well, 
whilst I am always ill ? » The treasurer answered, 
« My lord, the reason is, that you have always a 
hat in your head^ and I have always my head in a 
hat. » 

2 



10 ANECDOTES. 

ROYAL COMPLIMENT. — HENRY IV. 

The deputies from the parliament of Paris waited 
on Henry IV, to congratulate him on a victory in 
which Marshal Byron had distinguished himself. The 
King, pointing to Byron, addressed the deputies: 
« Gentlemen, I beg your attention to Marshal Byron, 
a person I present with equal pleasure to my friends 
and to my enemies. » 

COMPLAISANCE IN A PAINTER. 

A painter, taking the portrait of a lady, perceived 
that while he was working at her mouth , she was 
twisting her features in order to render it smaller, 
and put her lips into the most extreme contraction. 
«Do not trouble yourself so much, madam », said the 
painter, «for, if you choose, I will draw your face 
without any mouth at all. » 

PROSELYTISM. 



When one of the kings of France solicited M.Bou- 
gier, who was a protestant, to conform to the Roman 
Catholic religion, promising him, in return, a com- 
mission or a government, «Sire,» replied he , «if I 
could be persuaded to betray my God for a marshal's 
staff , I might be induced to betray my king for a 
bribe of much less value. » 



A QUESTION ANSWERED. 

An officer in the French service, having a favour 
conferred on him by Louis XIV , felt such awe in 
the presence of his sovereign, that he trembled vio- 



ANECDOTES. 11 

lently , which being observed by the monarch, he 
asked him, if he was accustomed to tremble in that 
manner ? «Not before your Majesty's enemies, » was 
the reply. 

THE GREAT BOOK AND THE LITTLE ONE. 

A coxcomb , wishing to excite ridicule on the 
ignorance of a young nobleman of the court of 
Louis XIV, said to this prince, «A very large 
book might be made of what this nobleman 
does not know.» The king assuming a severe 
tone, replied, «and a very little book might be 
made of what you do. » 

HUMANITY. 

In 1776, during the severe cold in the month 
of January , the Duke de la Rochefoucault, going 
from Versailles, and seeing his two lackeys shiv- 
ering with cold } made them get into his coach. 
This act of .humanity was much praised at court. 
«I was very sorry, » replied the duke, «that I 
could not take in the coachman and horses too.« 

i 
HOT AND COLD. 

A certain nobleman, being accused of a crime, 
which led to the stake, fled. He was however 
tried, and burned in effigy. During this time he 
was crossing one of the highest mountains of the 
Pyrenees , covered with snow and ice. He said 
afterwards, «I was never so cold in my life, as 
whilst they were burning me^ » 



\°l ANECDOTES. 

REMARK OF DEMOSTHENES. 

When the Athenian ambassadors returned from 
Macedon, they expatiated much on the beauty of 
Alexander's person, and his power of drinking a 
large quantity of wine. The Grecian orator heard 
these reports with indignation, observing, «lhat 
the first topic of praise became a woman , and 
that the second contained the quality of a spunge. » 

A PENNYWORTH OF WIT. 

A poor fellow, begging from the Duke of North- 
umberland, said; «he hoped he would give him 
something, as they were of the same family, being 
both descended from Adam. » « Certainly, » said 
the Duke; « there is a penny for you; and if all 
the rest of your relations will give you as much^ 
you'll be a richer man than I am by far.» 

JUSTICE. — ! VOLTAIRE. 

Voltaire, having lampooned a nobleman, was one 
night, on his way home, intercepted by him, and 
handsomely cudgelled for his licentious wit. Upon 
which he applied to the Duke of Orleans, who 
was then regent, and begged him to do him jus- 
tice in the affair. «Sir,» replied the Regent smi- 
ling, «it has been already done. » 

THE REBUKE. — Dr. JOHNSON. 

Dr. Johnson was in company with a very talk- 
ative lady, of whom he appeared to take very 
little notice. She, in pique, said to him. «Why 
doctor, I believe you are not very fond of the 



ANECDOTES. 13 

company of ladies ?» «You are mistaken, madam, » 
replied he, <d like their delicacy, I like their vi- 
vacity, and I like their silence. » 



POLITENESS. 

The governor of Virginia, talking one day with 
a merchant in the street, saw a negro "pass, who 
howed to him, and he returned it. «How, » said 
the merchant , «does your excellency condescend 
to bow to a slaye?» ((Without doubt, » replied the 
governor, « I should be sorry, if a slave showed 
himself more polite than me. » 

SIMPLICITY. 

An old officer had lost an eye in the wars, 
and supplied it with a glass one , which he al- 
ways took out when he went to bed. Being at 
an inn, he took out his eye, and gave it to a] ser- 
vant to lay on the table. The man still waiting 
and staring, « What are you waiting for?» said 
the officer. «Only for the other eye, Sir. >\ 

i 

JFRIENDS AT COURT. 

The Archbishop of Toledo, standing at a win- 
dow, and seeing a peasant beat his ass most un- 
mercifully^ opened the casement, and cried out, 
« Have done , have done, you scoundrel, else I 
shall have you whipped.)) The peasant answer-* 
ed, « Your pardon, good master, I did not know 
my ass had friends at court. » 



14 ANECDOTES. 

THE KING UPON ALL FOURS, -r HENRY IV. 

The Spanish ambassador one day entered the 
room in which Henry IV. was crawling upon 
all fours,, with his infant son upon his back. 
The king stopped, and looking at the ambassa- 
dor, said to him, <«Pray, sir, have you any chil- 
dren?)) <(Yes, Sire, several, » «Weli then, I shall 
not leave off, but complete my round. » 

THE PRECAUTION. 



A man, who was in the habit of travelling a 
great deal, complained to his friend, that he 
had often been robbed, and was quite afraid 
of stirring abroad; on which the other advised 
him to carry pistols with him on his journeys. 
«Oh, that would be still worse, » replied the 
hero, ((the, thieves would rob me of them also.» 

A MARSHAL AND A MONARCH. 

Marshal Villars having quarrelled with the mi- 
nisters of Louis XIV, occasion was soon found to 
send him to join the army, then on a very dan- 
gerous duty in Germany. When he came to take 
leave of the king, he said ; « Sire, I leave you 
surrounded by my enemies , while I go to a 
place where I shall be surrounded by jour's. » 

PUNISHMENT OF A BAD HUSBAND. -STERNE. 

Sterne, who used his wife very ill, was one day 
talking to Garrick, in a fine sentimental style, in 
praise of conjugal love. ((The husband, » said Sterne, 
« who behaves unkindly to his wife , deserves 



ANECDOTES. 15 

to have his house burned over his head. » « If you 
think so», remarked Garrick, «I hope you have 
taken care to get your's ensured. » 

AN ALPHABETICAL PUN. 

A gentleman and his friend passing through the 
Old Bailey, soon after the institution of the new 
drop, were stopped by an immense crowd, and 
on enquiring into the cause, were told, that in a 
few minutes one Vowel was to be hanged. «I 
wonder what Vowel that can be , » cried one of 
them, alt is neither u nor 1, » replied the other, 
so let us pass on. » 

AMERICAN CURIOSITY. — FRANKLIN. 

So inquisitive are the Americans, that Dr. Frank- 
lin tells us, when he travelled in that country, 
and wished to ask his way from any one he met, 
he found it expedient to save time, by beginning 
with, «My name is Benjamin Franklin, by trade 
a printer, am come from such a place , and am 
going to such a place , and now , which is my 
road?» 

A tilNT. 

A haughty Italian prince, famed for his pride 
and ill humour, walking up to* one of the windows, 
with a foreign envoy, said to him; « Do you 
know, sir, that one of my ancestors formerly 
forced an ambassador to leap from this window 
into the street ?» «Did he?» replied the minis- 
ter; ((perhaps it was not then the custom for 
ambassadors to wear swords.)) 



16 ANECDOTES. 

TURKISH GALLANTRY. 

Lady C — was one day rallying the Turkish 
ambassador concerning its being permitted in the 
Koran to each Mussulman to have several wives. 
«'Tis- true, madam, » replied the Turk, «and it 
permits it , that the husband may y in several, 
find the various accomplishments which many 
English woraen # like your ladyship^ are singly 
possessed of. » 

PUPIL. OF ZENO. 

A youth^. named, Eretrius, was for a conside* 
rable time a follower of Zeno. On his return 
home, his father asked him what he had learned? 
The boy replied, «that would hereafter appear, » 
On this, the father being enraged, beat his son; 
who bearing it patiently^ and without complain- 
ing,! said, «This have I learned, patiently to 
endure a father's anger. » 

TALLOW, 

The celebrated bishop of Nimes, was the son 
of a tallow-chandler. A proud duke once endeav- 
oured to mortify the prelate, by saying that 
he smelled of tallow; to which the bishop re- 
plied; «My lord, I am the son of a tallow- 
chandler, it is true j and if your lordship had 
been born the same, you would have remained 
a tallow-chandler all the days of your life. » 

THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 

At the estate of the Earl of Shannon in Ire- 
land, one of the company , who was a physi- 



ANECDOTES. 17 

eian, strolled out before dinner into the church- 
yard. Dinner being served up , and the doctor 
not returned, some of the company were ex- 
pressing their surprise, where he could be gone 
to. «Oh,» says a gentleman, «he is but just stepped 
out, to pay a visit to some of his old patients.)) 

A TERRIBLE FRIGHT. 

A man of fashion, travelling in Spain, was 
shown the Escurial, and the stupendous convent 
of St. Jerome. The prior told him, that this build*- 
ing was erected, in consequence of a vow made 
by Philip j at the battle of St. Quintra , in 
case he was victorious. « The king, » replied the 
traveller drily, looking round the immense edi- 
fice, «must have been terribly frightened.)) 

DELICATE REPROOF. 

An unfashionable bishop was offered an abbey 
by Cardinal Dubois, who declined it in the most 
polite terms,, alledging that he could not recon- 
cile it to his conscience , to hold two benefices. 
The Cardinal , astonished at this unusual objec- 
tion, said, «You should be canonized.)) «I wish, 
my lord,» answered the bishop, that I deserved 
it, and that you had the power. » 

THE DOCTOR DOCTORED. 

A rich and generous merchant , having recover- 
ed from an illness by the aid of a physician, who 
looked very thin and pale, thus addressed him; 
«Now, doctor, let me prescribe for your disease.)) 
<d am very well,)) replied the astonished Galenj 

3 



18 ANECDOTES, 

«Nay, I am certain you will find this — giving him 
a large purse — will do you a vast deal of good, 
if you will only condescend to take it. » 



A SPARTAN BON MOT. 

The weak and affected generally place a high 
value upon frivolous accomplishments, and are vain 
of exhibiting them. A stranger, who had acquired 
a habit of standing a long time upon one leg, vi- 
sited Lacedemon. Practising this trick before a 
Spartan, he vauntingly said, «You could not pre- 
serve this posture so long. » «No,» replied the La- 
cedemonian, «but a goose can. » 

GIBBON. 

Accident has frequently occasioned the most em- 
inent geniuses to display their powers. «It was 
at Rome)), says Gibbon , «on the 15 th October, 
1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Ca- 
pitol , while the bare-footed friars were singing 
vespers in the Temple of Jupiter, that the idea 
of writing the « Decline and fall » of the city first 
started to my mind». 

EARLY POETS — COWLEY, POPE. 

Amongst the early instances of poetic genius, 
Cowley's name deserves to be mentioned. Inspired 
by Spenser's Fairy Queen, which, finding by acci- 
dent in his mother's room , he is said to have de- 
voured before he was twelve years old, he soon 
became one of the greatest poets his country had 



ANECDOTES. 19 

till then produced. His earliest poetical production 
was written at ten years old; that of Pope at twelve. 

A COURTIERS REPLY. -SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

Sir Walter Raleigh received many signal fa- 
vours from Queen Elisabeth , which rather en- 
creased than diminished his desire for more; and 
he at last became so importunate that she could 
not help saying to him: «When, Sir Wal- 
ter, will you cease to be a beggar ?» «When 
your gracious majesty ceases to be a benefactor,» 
was the reply. 

POETS IRRITABLE. 

Santeuil, the French poet, was reading some 
verses to a man of wealth and fashion, who 
did not seem to admire them. This conduct in- 
flamed the poet to such a degree , that he a- 
bused his patron very severely. To pacify him, 
his friend sent him ten pistoles the next mor- 
ning. «Tell your master,," said Santeuil to the ser- 
vant, as he counted the money, «I wish I had 

beaten him. » 

i 

GOOD MANNERS. 

When Pope Clement XIV. ascended the papal 
chair, the ambassadors of the different states wailed 
on him with congratulations; when they were 
introduced, they bowed, and he returned the 
compliment by bowing also. The master of the 
ceremonies told him he should not have done 
this: «Oh, I beg your pardon, » said the pon- 



20 ANECDOTES. 

tiff, «I have not been pope long enough to for- 
get good manners, « 

JOB FOR A DOCTOR, 

A surgeon being sent for to a gentleman, who 
had just received a slight wound in a du?l, gave 
orders to his servant, to go home with all haste 
imaginable , and fetch a certain plaister. The 
patient turned a little pale, and said, «Lord, 
sir, I hope there is no danger. » «Yes, indeed 
is there, » said the surgeon, «for if the fellow 
does not make haste, the wound will heal be- 
fore he returns. » 

MAXIMS OF THALES. 

God is the oldest of all things, because he has 
no beginning. The world is the most beautiful, 
as being the work of his hands. Necessity is the 
strongest of all things, as every thing must sub*- 
mit to its law. Time is the wisest thing , as it 
detects all. Thought is the swiftest thing, as it 
pervades ail places. Hope is the most common 
thing , as it is possessed by those who have no- 
thing else. 

EXCELLENT WHISKEY. 

Three Irishmen , who had drunk pretty freely 
of whiskey at a tavern in Dublin, were loud in 
their praises of its virtues, as they reeled along 
the banks of the LifFey. One of them had just de- 
clared , « that whiskey was meat and drink to a 
man,» when his foot slipped, and he fell into the 
river. «There, Pat, » said one of his friends, «you 



ANECDOTES. Stl 

are fully provided for ; you had meat and drink, 
and now you have washing and lodging. » 

HEROISM IN A BOY. — ADMIRAL SHO¥EL. 

Sir Cloudesley Shovel was, when a boy, on 
hoard a ship commanded by sir John Narborough ; 
who,, during an action*, expressed a very earnest 
wish^ to have some orders, of consequence con- 
veye^d to a ship at a considerable distance. Sho- 
vel hearing this, immediately undertook tq con- 
vey it; and this he actually performed, swimming 
through the enemy's line of fire, with the despatch- 
es in his mouth. 

i 

FRENCH GAIETY. 

In the campaign of 1812, a distinguished general 
officer of the French army was severely wounded 
in the leg. The surgeons, on consulting, declared 
that amputation was indispensable. The general 
received the intelligence with much composure; 
but observing his valet-de-chambre much affected, 
he said to him with a smile; «Why these tears, 
Germain? It is a fortunate thing for you, as you 
will only have one boot to clean in future. » 

HUMANE DRIVER REWARDED. - ALEXANDER. 

A poor Macedonian soldier was one day leading 
before Alexander a mule laden with gold for the 
King's use. The beast being so tired that he was 
notable either to go on, or to sustain the load,, the 
mule-driver took it off, and carried it himself, 
with great difficulty, a considerable distance. Alex- 
ander seeing him about to sink under the bur- 



22 ANECDOTES. 

den, cried out, «Try and carry it quite through 
to your tent, friend, for it is all your own. » 

MISPLACED CLEMENCY. - LOUIS XIV. 

The duke cle Montausier, preceptor to the Dau- 
phin, son of Louis XIV, is said to have been the 
only one of lhat monarch's courtiers who had the 
courage to speak the truth to him. When Louis 
one day told him that he had pardoned a man 
who had killed nineteen persons, after having been 
pardoned fo.r the first murder he had committed, 
«No, Sire,» said Montausier, «he killed but one, 
your majesty killed the nineteen. » 

VOX POPULI. — CROMWELL. 

When Oliver Cromwell, attended by Thurlow, 
once went to dine in the city, the populace rent 
the air with their acclamations. «Your highness, » 
says the secretary, «may see by this that you have 
the voice of the people, as well as the voice of 
God.»«As to God,» replied the protector, «I will 
not talk about him here; but for the people, they 
would be just as noisv, and perhaps more rejoi- 
ced, if you and I were going to be hanged. » 

DESERTION. — FREDERICK THE GREAT. 

Frederick of Prussia, surveyingsome of the advan- 
ced posts of his camp, observed a soldier endea- 
vouring to pass the centinel. The king "stopped 
him, and insisted on knowing where he was going. 
« Truly,» answered the man, «your majesty has 
been so worsted in all your attempts, that I was 
going to desert.» « Remain here,» replied the mo- 



ANECDOTES. 



23 



narch, «but one week longer, and if fortune does 
not mend with me, I .will desert with you,» 

FICTION AND TRUTH. — WALLER. 

The English poet Waller wrote a fine panegyric 
on Cromwell, at the time of his assuming the pro- 
tectorship. Upon the restoration of Charles II, he 
wrote a poem likewise in his praise, and presen- 
ted it to him. After the king had read it, he told 
Waller he had formerly made a better on Crom- 
well. ((Please your majesty,)) answered Waller, 
«we poets are always more happy in fiction than 
in truth. » 

TURKISH JUSTICE- 

In a certain city, some cotton having been sto- 
len, the merchants complained to the Cadi, who 
invited all the men of the town to a dinner. On 
meeting the company, the cadi exclaimed, «What 
blockheads these men are, who have stolen the 
cotton, and come to my feast with it sticking on 
their beards.)) Several persons immediately put 
their hands to their beards, and were seized and 
punished. , 

Dr. GARTH AND THE DUCHESS OF 
MARLBOROUGH. 

-. 
The character of the duchess of Marlborough, 

as a shrew, needs not to be enlarged on, to give 

force to the subsequent anecdote. One day she 

was pressing the duke to take a medicine; and 

with her usual warmth, added, «F11 be hanged if 

it does not do you good» Dr. Garth, who was 



24 ANECDOTES. 4| 

present, immediately exclaimed in his dry Humour- 
ed manner, «Take it then, your grace _, for it must 
be of service to you , one way or the other. » 

A DEFINITION. 

When Sir John Tabor went to Versailles, to try 
the effects of bark upon Louis XIV's only son, the 
Dauphin, who had been long ill of an intermit- 
tent fever, the physicians ^ who were about the 
prince , would not permit him to prescribe till they 
had asked him some questions. Amongst others, 
they desired him to define, what an intermitting 
fever was. He replied, « Gentlemen, it is a dis- 
ease which I can cure, and which you cannot. » 

PRESENCE OF MIND. 

A Turkish emperor, enraged with an astro- 
loger, exclaimed, ((Villain, what sort of death do 
you think you will die of?» «I shall die in a 
fever,» replied the philosopher, with great com- 
posure,)) «You shall be hanged immediately,)) re- 
plied the emperor, «so you are mistaken.)) «My 
lord,» answered the sage, « if any person feels my 
pulse, he'll find I'm now in a very high fever. » 
The readiness of his reply saved his life. 

NO SOONER SAID THAN DONE. 

A gouty gentleman inJRndon, sitting alone one 
night by his fireside , a well-dressed man came very 
civilly into the room, and said, «I observe, sir, 
that your servant is just gone to the alehouse, and 
has carelessly left your street-door open; how very 
easy would it be for any rascal to come in and blow 



ANECDOTES. 25 

out these two wax-candles , thus and thus , and run 
away with this pair of silver candlesticks;)) which 
he accordingly did without waiting for any reply* 

POETICAL CIRCUMSTANCES - THOMSON. 

Thomson, having lost a place he held under go- 
vernment, was introduced by one of his friends 
to the Prince of Wales , with the hope of pro- 
curing him something. On being presented, the 
Prince gaily asked him about the state of his affairs. 
«Oh, your Highness,)) answered Thomson, they 
are in a much more poetical posture than former- 
ly, » The result of this introduction was a pension 
of 100 J., which the Prince settled on him. 

DEATH OF OTWAY. 

The death of Otway is said to have taken place 
in the following dreadful manner. Having contract- 
ed debts which he was unable to pay, he was 
pursued by the officers of the law, and at last re- 
duced to such complete wretchedness, as to be o- 
bliged to ask a gentleman to lend him a shilling, to 
prevent him from starving. On receiving a guinea, 
he flew to a baker's, bouglxt a roll , and was choked 
whilst ravenously swallowing the first mouthful. 

UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT. — GAY. 

Gay, the fabulist, was invited to read a tragedy 
he had just composed, before the Princess of Wales 
and her court. When the hour came , he was 
introduced, and advancing with reverence too great 
for any other attention, he stumbled over a stool,, 
and, falling forwards, threw down a weighty japan 

A 






26 



ANECDOTES. 



screen. The princess started, the ladies screamed, 
and poor Gay , after all the disturbance , was to 
read the play. His situation may be easily conceive^. 

BEN JONSON. 

Several anecdotes are related of the moroseness 
of Ben Jonson's character. In his old age he was 
reduced to great poverty, and was living in ill 
health, and in an obscure condition. He applied to 
Charles I. for relief, who sent him ten pounds. 
Exasperated at the smallness of the sum, he retur- 
ned the following answer : <cHis majesty hath sent 
me ten pounds because I am old and live in an alley; 
go and tell him that his soul lives in an alley. 

ANECDOTE OF COLUMBUS. 

Columbus, speaking with great humility of his 
discovery of America, some of the company spoke 
in very humiliating terms of the expedition. « There 
is no more difficulty,)) replied Columbus, «than 
in putting this e^ on its end. » They tried the 
experiment, and all failed. Columbus, breaking a 
little off the end, set it upright. The company 
sneered at this contrivance. «Thus,» observed 
Columbus, «a thing appears very easy after it is 
done. » 

A SOVEREIGN AND A SCHOOLMASTER. 

King Charles II. paying a visit to Dr. Busby, the 
doctor is said to have strutted through his school, 
with his hat upon his head , whilst his majesty 
walked complaisantly behind him with his hat un- 
er his arm : but when he was taking his leave, 



ANECDOTES. 27 

the doctor thus addressed the King: «I hope your 
majesty will excuse my apparent want of respect; 
but if my boys were to imagine,, there was a grea- 
ter man in the kingdom than myself, I should ne- 
ver be able to rule them.» 

LIE UPON LIE. — C1BBER. 

When Cibber once went to visit Booth, and 
knew that he was at home, a female domestic 
denied him. Cibber took no notice of this at the 
time; but when, a few days after, Booth paid him 
a visit in return, he called out from the first floor, 
that he was not at home. «How can that be,» 
answered Booth, «do I not hear your voice ?» «To 
be sure you do, but what then? I believed your 
servant-maid; and it is hard, indeed, if you won't 
believe me. » 

COLOURS SAVED. 

In a Scottish regiment, at the battle of Water- 
loo, the standard-bearer was killed, and clasped 
the colours so fast in death, that a serjeant trying 
to no purpose to wrest them from his grasp , .on 
'the near approach of tlie enemy, made a violent 
effort, and throwing the corpse, colours and 
all, over his shoulders, carried them off together. 
The French seeing this, struck with the heroism 
of the action, hailed him with loud and repeated 
shouts of applause. 

REPARTEE OF DANTE. 

This divine poet lived veiy poor and in exile, 
at Verona, on a small pension N from Scaliger. In 



28 ANECDOTES. 

short, he could scarcely subsist. At the same 
court was a buffoon, who lived most magnificently^ 
«How happens ii^» says the latter to Dante, one 
day, «that with all your genius you remain so 
poor, whilst such v a blockhead and fool as I am, 
abound in all things?» «I should be 'rich too , » 
said the indignant poet, "had I your luck to find 
a prince with a character like my own. » 



JUSTICE. 

A blacksmith of a village murdered a man, and 
Cvas condemned to be hanged. The chief peasants 
of the place joined together, and begged the alcade 
that the blacksmith might not suffer, because he 
was necessary to the place , which could not do 
without a blacksmith, to shoe horses, mend wheels, 
etc. But the alcade said, «How then can I fulfil 
justice?)) A labourer answered, <(Sir, there are 
two weavers in the village , and for so small a 
place one is enough; hang the other. » 



RUSTIC POLITENESS. 

A country squire, who was very fond of exac^ 
ting the usual marks of respect from the lower 
classes, one day riding in the country, met a boy 
dragging along a calf. The boy stared at him as 
he passed, but without taking off his hat. The 
squire asked him if he knew who he was. <(Yes», 
replied the boy., «to be sure I do. » «Then why 
don't you take off your hat, fellow, » said $he squire, 
indignantly 7 . «So I will, master, if you will hold 
my calf for me,» answered the lad. 



ANECDOTES. 



29 



POVERTY OF THE LEARNED — CERVANTES, 
CAMOENS, TASSO. 

Genius seems to have been but poorly rewar- 
ded in tbe olden time. Cervantes, the immortal 
genius of Spain is supposed to have lived in extreme 
wretchedness, and often' to have wanted food. 
Camoens, the solitary pride of Portugal, perished 
in a hospital at Lisbon. The great Tasso, was 
reduced to such difficulty as to have been obliged 
to borrow a crown for a week's subsistance. In 
our days many a sorry writer lives in splendour 
upon the fruits of his wretched productions. 

SIR THOMAS MORFS UTOPIA. 

When the Utopia of Sir Thomas More was first 
published, it occasioned a droll mistake. This poet- 
ical romance represents a perfect, but visionary 
republic_, in an island supposed to have been newly 
discovered. As this was the age of discovery^ 
many persons considered it as a genuine history; 
and some from pious motives, thought it would 
he highly expedient^ that missionaries should be 
sent there , in order to convert so wise a nation 
to Christianity. , 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 

Sir Philip Sidney, the ornament of the court of 
Queen Elisabeth, and the favourite and theme of the 
poets of his time, perished at the early age of thir- 
ty two, from a wound received in battle. This fine 
trait of generosity is related of him. As he rode 
faint and bleeding from the field, he called for a 
draught of water, which he was about to drink, 



SO 



ANECDOTES. 



when observing a soldier in the agonies of death, 
he resigned it to him, with the heroic words «This. 
man's necessity is greater than mine.» 

QUEEN ELISABETH AND SIR WALTER 
RALEIGH. 

Sir Walter Raleigh's first step at court, shows 
how well nature had endowed him with the qua- 
lities best adapted to the court in which he was 
destined to shine. He was once attending the queen 
in a walk, when she came to a spot where her pas- 
sage was obstructed by the mud. He immediately 
took off his rich cloak, and spread it on the ground 
for her foot-cloth. Elisabeth was highly pleased with 
this attention; and it was afterwards observed, that 
his sacrifice of a cloak obtained him many a suit. 

MAJESTY IN THE WRONG- — LOUIS XIV. 

Louis XIV, playing at backgammon, had a doubt- 
ful throw *, a dispute arose , and the surrounding 
courtiers all remained silent. The count de Gram- 
mont happening to come in at that instant, ''De- 
cide the matter,» said the Ring to him. «Sire,» 
said the tount , «your majesty is in the wrong. » 
«How,» replied the King, «can you thus decide 
without knowing the question? » « Because , » said the 
count, ahad the matter been doubtful, all these 
gentlemen present would have given it for your 
majesty. » 

FIDELITY. 

After the battle of Culloden, a reward of thirty 
thousand pounds was offered to any one who should 



ANECDOTES. 51 

discover or deliver up the Pretender. He had ta- 
ken refuge with two common thieves, who pro- 
tected hirn with fidelity, robbed for his support, 
and often went to Inverness in disguise to buy 
provisions for him. A considerable time afterwards, 
one of these men, who had resisted the tempta- 
tion of thirty thousand pounds for a breach of 
fidelity, was hanged for stealing a cow of the va- 
lue of thirty shillings. 

THE DREAM INTERPRETED. 

A gentleman, in embarrassed circumstances , ha- 
ving dreamGd that he saw a fat cat, a blind cat, 
and a lean cat in company, was relating this vi- 
sion of the night before his son , and wondering 
what it could mean. « Father, if you will not be 
angry,» replied the son, «I will explain it. The 
fat cat is your steward, the blind cat is yourself, 
and the lean cat your dutiful son and heir appa- 
rent; for if you suffer the steward to go, on as he 
has done, he must get fat, you must be blind, 
and I shall be lean from want. » 

THE FAMISHED ARABIAN. 

An Arabian, who had Ipst himself in the deserts^ 
had eaten nothing for two days, and saw himself 
threatened with starvation. In passing near one 
of those wells, where the caravans stop to water 
their' camels, he saw on the sand a little leather 
bag. He picked it up, crying, « Blessed be the 
holy prophet Allah! they are either dates or nuts. » 
Full of this delightful hope, he hastened to open 
it; but, at the sight of what it contained, he exclai- 
med with an accent of bitter grief, «Alas, they 
are only pearls ! » 



32 ANECDOTES. 

AN EMBARRASSING QUESTION. 

Two peasants were deputed by their village to 
go to a town, and select a skilful painter, to make 
an altar-piece for their church. The subject was 
to be the martyrdom of St. Sebastian. The pain- 
ter to whom they addressed themselves, asked them, 
if he was to represent the saint alive or dead. 
This question embarrassed them very much during 
some time, till at last one of them said to the 
painter: «The surest plan will be to represent 
him alive; we can easily kill him, if we wish him 
dead.» 

COMPARATIVE HONESTY. 

Some soldiers once fell upon a watchman, in a 
small town, in a lonely street, and took away his 
money and coat. He immediately repaired to the 
captain of the regiment, to complain of his mis- 
fortune. The captain asked him , whether he had 
On the waistcoat he then wore, when he was rob- 
bed by the soldiers. «Yes, sir,» replied the poor 
fellow. ((Then my friend » rejoined the captain, 
(( I can assure you they do not belong to my com- 
pany ; otherwise they would have left you neither 
waistcoat nor shirt. » 

NOTED FOOL. 

There formerly lived at Paris a certain president, 
named Goussant, whose stupidity became prover- 
bial amongst people of quality ^ when they had 
done a foolish thing. A gentleman, having made 
a blunder at play, which he instantly perceived, 
said to himself, «I am a perfect Goussant. » The 



ANECDOTES. 33 

president happening likewise to be in company, 
and behind the gentleman's chair, hearing his name 
used in this manner, cried out, «You are a 
fool!» «You are right, » replied the former, «that 
is exactly what I meant. » 

DUKE OF ALBEMARLE. 

The Duke of Albemarle, who was equally dis- 
tinguished in naval and military exploits, possess- 
ed personal courage in the highest degree. When 
the duke was once exposing himself to the hottest 
of the fire, during an engagement, that his exam- 
ple might serve to keep others to their duty, a 
person of distinction expostulated with him, on 
the danger to which he exposed himself. «Sir, 
if I had been afraid of bullets, » replied the duke, 
(d should have quitted this trade of a soldier 
long ago. » 

UNIVERSAL HUMANITY. 

M. Boudon, an eminent surgeon, was one day 
sent for by the cardinal Dubois , prime minister of 
France, to perform a very serious operation upon 
him. The cardinal, on seeing him enter the room, 
said to him, «You must not expect to treat me in 
the same rough manner', as you treat the poor 
miserable wretches at your hospital of the Hotel- 
Dieu.)) «My lord,» replied M. Boudon, with great 
dignity, « every one of those miserable wretches, 
as your eminence is pleased to call them, is a 
prime minister in my eyes. » 

SPIRITED ANSWER. 

Morvilliers, keeper of the seals to Charles IX' 
of France, was one day ordered by his sovereign 

5 



34 ANECDOTES. 

to put the seals to the pardon of a nobleman who 
had committed murder. He refused. The king 
then took the seals out of his hands, and having 
put them himself to the instrument of remission, 
returned them immediately to Morvilliers, who re- 
fused to take them again, saying, «The seals have 
twice put me in a situation of great honour; once 
Avhen I received them, and again when I resigned 
them.» 

ASSES 1 HEADS. 

A good peasant, who had never been in London, 
went there. The sight of the great city conside- 
rably excited his admiration, and his curiosity car- 
ried him so far., as to induce him to wish to see 
what was sold in each shop. He saw a man alone 
at an exchange broker's , and said to him with a 
silly air, «Tell me, sir, if you please, what do you 
sell?» The broker thinking to amuse himself at 
his expence, answered, « Asses' heads. » « Faith, » 
replied the peasant, «you must have a great sale, 
as I see you have only one left in your shop. » 

ORIGIN OF PARADISE REGAINED - MILTON. 

After Milton had lost his sight, many of his friends 
were in the habit of reading to him. Amongst 
these was a quaker named Elmwood , who, when 
he saw the first copy of Paradise lost, remarked, 
«Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise lost, 
what hast thou to say upon Paradise regained?)) 
Three years after Milton showed Elmwood his 
new poem of Paradise regained, saying, «This is 
owing to you, for you put it in my head by the 
question you put me , which otherwise I should 
not have thought of. » 



ANECDOTES. 35 

FICTION LIKE TRUTH — DE FOE. 

Daniel Foe or De Foe, as he afterwards cal!ed 
himself, the author of Robinson Crusoe , was so 
great a master of fiction as to have twice impos- 
ed works of imagination , as realities , on great 
and competent judges. The first was his Journal 
of the plague year , which D r Mead took for an 
authentic record of facts. The second, his Me- 
moirs of a cavalier during the civil wars in England, 
was quoted by the Earl of Chatham, until unde- 
ceived, as the best account of the civil wars that 
had yet appeared. 

GRAVITY — SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 

We owe the great discovery of Newton to a 
trivial accident. Whilst a student at Cambridge 
he had retired, during the time of the plague, in- 
to the country. As he was reading under an ap- 
ple tree, one of the apples fell, and struck him 
a smart blow on the head. When he observed the 
smallness of the apple, he was surprised at the stroke. 
This led him to consider the accelerating motion 
of falling bodies, from whence he deduced the 
principle of gravity; and laid the foundation of his 
philosophy. 

NOBLE RESOLUTION. 

When the infamou? Catharine of Medicis had per- 
suaded Charles IX, of France, to massacre all the 
protestants in the kingdom, that detestable prince 
sent orders to the governors to put all the hugo- 
nots in their respective provinces to death. «Sire,» 
answered one Catholic governor, who will ever be 



36 



ANECDOTES. 



dear to humanity, «I have too much respect for 
your majesty ^ not to persuade myself that the or- 
der I have received must he forged ; but if (which 
God forbid) it should be really your majesty's or- 
der, I have too much respect for your majesty to 
obey it. » 

CORNEILLE. 

Racine and Boileau were honoured with a month- 
ly audience by Louis XIV. At one of these in- 
terviews, the king asked what novelties there were 
in the literary world. Racine replied, that he had 
just seen a melancholy spectacle in the house of 
Corneille, whom he had found dying, and unable 
to procure a little broth. His majesty preserved 
a deep silence; but no sooner were the poets gone, 
than he ordered the dying man a liberal donation. 
How often is this the case,, that the great neglect 
men of genius, til! their bounty arrives too late 
to save them. 

SIR THOMAS MORE AND HENRY VIII. 

Henry VIII, quarrelling with Francis I, deter- 
mined to send an ambassador, who should deliver 
a message to the French king, in terms of haughty 
menace^ and appointed sir Thomas More, his chan- 
cellor, to the place. More told Henry, that his 
embassy on this occasion might cost him his head. 
« Never fear, man,» said Henry; « should Francis 
cut off your head, Fll make every Frenchman, 
now in my dominions, a head shorter. » «I am 
much obliged to your majesty,)) replied the face- 
tious chancellor, «but I much doubt if any of their 
heads would fit my shoulders.)) 



ANECDOTES. 85 

CASTLES IN THE AIR. — WILKINS. 

Dr. Wilkins , a man of uncommon parts and 
abilities, in the reign of Charles II, has been much 
laughed at, for his chimerical projects; but even 
this proves him a man of genius. Such was his 
attempt to show the possibility of a passage to the 
moon. In a conversation with the duchess of New- 
castle, her grace asked him, « Doctor, where am 
I to find a place for baiting at, in my way up to 
that planet.» « Madam » said he, « of all the people 
in the world, I never expected that question from 
you, who have built so many castles in the air, 
that you may lie every night at one of your own.» 

HAT AND WIG. 

A fellow, walking down Holborn-Hill on a sultry 
evening, observed an old gentleman without his 
hat, panting and leaning against a post, and cour- 
teously asked him, what was the matter. «Sir,» 
says the old man , «an impudent rascal has just 
snatched my hat off, and run away with it; I have 
run after him, till I am quite out of breath, and 
cannot, if my life depended on it, go a step furth- 
er.)) «What not a step'?» says the fellow. ((Not 
a step,» returned he. «Why then I must have 
your wig; and , snatching it off, he was out of 
sight in a moment. 

CHAUCER. 

Amongst the writers who have retained their 
faculties to a great age, our old Chaucer maybe 
cited as an illustrious example. His ((Canterbury 
Tales m a poem abounding in the most playful hu- 



38 



ANECDOTES. 



inour, and such as might rather have been expec- 
ted from a very young man, was not begun till his 
sixty third year, and he continued it till past se- 
venty. The description of his characters, in the 
prologue to this celebrated poem, is so vivid as to 
have induced Dryden to say «I see every one of 
the pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales as distinctly 
as if I had supped with them.» 

LORD BACON. 

The celebrated Lord Bacon, the founder of mo- 
dern philosophy, gave early tokens of the extraor- 
dinary intellect which was one day to distinguish 
him. Even as a mere child his uncommon quick- 
ness of parts was remarkable. It is related of him 
that when very young Elisabeth one day asked him 
«how old he was ?» when he immediately answer- 
ed « just two years younger than your majesty's 
happy reign. » This pretty compliment from a child 
pleased the queen so much that she afterwards fre- 
quently amused herself with asking him questions, 
and jocularly called him her « little lord-keeper. » 

MAGNA CHART A RECOVERED. — COTTON. 

Sir Robert Cotton, happening to call at his tai- 
lor's, discovered that the man held in his hand, 
the identical Magna Charta, with all its appenda- 
ges of seals and signatures , which he was about 
to cut into measures for his customers. The ba- 
ronet redeemed this valuable curiosity at the price 
of old parchment, and thus recovered what had been 
supposed to have been irretrievably lost. This 
grand charter of English liberty is still preserved in 
the Cottonian library, and exhibits every mark of 



ANECDOTES. 39 

dilapidation; but whether from time or the tailor's 
scissars, cannot now be ascertained. 



EVEN TEMPER. — NEWTON. 

Sir Isaac Newton possessed a remarkably mild and 
even temper. This great man^ on a particular oc- 
casion, was called out of his study, to an adjoining 
apartment. A little dog, named Diamond, the con- 
stant but incurious attendant of his master's research- 
es, happened to be left among the papers, and 
threw down a lighted candle, which consumed the 
almost finished labours of some years. Sir Isaac soon 
returned, and had the mortification to behold his ir- 
reparable loss; but with his usual self-possession, he 
only exclaimed; «Oh Diamond, Diamond, thou little 
knowest the mischief thou hast done. » 



THE COURTIER CUT SHORT. 

A borough, famous in the country on account 
of an ass-fair, which is held there every year, had 
sent its magistrate to meet a prince , in order to 
harangue him. A courtier of the prince's retinue, 
perceiving that the speech began to grow tire- 
some to him, thought proper to interrupt the speak- 
er , by asking him, «What asses were worth in 
his country?)) The magistrate stopped short, and 
after having examined, from top to toe, the per- 
son who had asked him such an out-of-the-way 
question; «When they are,» answered he, « of your 
size and colour, they are worth a guinea ;» and 
he resumed his speech. 



40 ANECDOTES. 

THE WARDROBE. 

As Louis XVI. was, one severe frosty day, going 
from Versailles to Paris, he saw a young man very 
lightly clothed^ tripping along, in as much seeming 
comfort, as if it had been in the midst of summer. 
He called out to him, and said, «How is it, that 
dressed as you are, you seem to feel no incon- 
venience from the cold, while I, notwithstanding 
the warm clothes I have on, am nearly perishing?*) 
«Sire,» replied the other } «if your majesty will 
follow my example, I'll engage that you'll be 
the warmest king in Europe. » «How is that?» 
said the king. «Your majesty need only, like me, 
carry all your wardrobe on your back.» 

A PLACE. 

A gentleman, who possessed a small estate in 
Gloucestershire, was allured to town, by the pro- 
mises of the duke of Newcastle, who, for many 
months, kept him in constant attendance, until the 
poor man's patience being quite exhausted, he one 
morning called upon his patron , and told him, 
that he had, at length, got a place. The duke 
very cordially shook him by the hand, and con- 
gratulated him on his good fortune, telling him, 
that in a few days, a good thing would have been 
in his gift. — «But pray, sir, » added he, « where 
is your place ?» « In the Gloucester coach, » replied 
he; «I secured it last night. » 

A RECEIPT TO KILL RATS. — QUIN. 

Quin, the comedian, passing a night at a country 
inn, the landlord complained much of the house 



ANECDOTES. 



41 



being infested with rats. Quin promised to give 
him a receipt that would drive them away. On 
quitting the house, the landlord presented his bill, 
which was very exorbitant, and, at the same time, 
reminded the comedian of his promise as to the 
rats. «Why faith, » says Quin, «I believe I have 
forgotten my prescription, but if you will only 
give the rats such a bill as you have made out 
for me, I don't think there will be much fear of 
their ever entering your house again while they 
live. » 

WITTY APOLOGY. 

A physician, calling one day on a gentleman 
who had been much afflicted with the gout, found, 
to his surprise, the disease gone, and the patient 
rejoicing in his recovery, over a bottle of wine. 
«Come along, doctor, » exclaimed the valetudinarian, 
«you are just in time to taste this bottle of Ma- 
deira; it is the first of a pipe that has just been 
broached.» «Ah!» replied the doctor, « these 
pipes of Madeira will never do; they are the cause 
of all your suffering.)) «Well then», rejoined the 
gay incurable^, "fill your glass, for now that we 
have found out the cause , the sooner we get rid 
of it the better. )> 

THE LIAR REBUKED. 

A young man of rank, just returned from the 
grand tour, and who exerted the traveller's pri- 
vilege of embellishing the truth with the flowers 
of invention, with a great deal of freedom, was 
one day recounting the number of presents he had 
received from different foreign princes , particu- 

6 



42 ANECDOTES. 

larly a very grand bridle, given him by the French 
king. «It is so elegantly ornamented with gold 
and precious stones, » said he, «that I cannot think 
of putting it into the mouth of my horse ; what 
shall I do with it?» continued he, addressing him- 
self to an old veteran in the army. «Put it in 
your own, my lord» replied the officer. 

CUNNING ANSWER. 

The Emperor Augustus, wishing to joke with a 
poet, who had several times presented him ver- 
ses in his praise; «It is just, » said the monarch, 
«lhat I should recompense you for your verses, » 
and gave him at the same time an epigram of his 
own composition. The poet read it, and imme- 
diately taking out his purse, in which were some 
pieces of gold; «I wish,» said he^ presenting 
them to the emperor, «I had greater sums to 
offer you, in order to pay such fine verses as they 
deserve.» This cunning raillery had its effect; it 
pleased Augustus, who made him a handsome 
present. 

TRUE RANK. — LOUIS XI. 

Louis XL not only invited the nobility of his 
court to eat with him, in order to attach them to 
him more strongly_, but even strangers from whom 
he could learn any thing, and sometimes merchants, 
for he gave a particular attention to commerce. A 
merchant named Master John , flattered by this 
distinction, determined to ask him for letters of 
nobility, which the king granted, but from that 
time took no further notice of him. Master John 
testified his surpriseo «Go,» said Louis^ «I formerly 



ANECDOTES. 43 

looked on you as the first of your class, you are 
now the last, and it would be an insult to the 
others,, if I still did you the same favour. » 

LOUIS XIV AND MAZARIN. 

When Louis XIV. came to the throne, he was re- 
markably obstinate, and it could not be known, whe- 
ther he took advice of any one. He had no public 
council, nor any private counsellor. One day being 
hunting, on a very small horse, Cardinal Mazarin 
several times repeated, « What a very strong horse 
that must be. )> «Why so, my good Cardinal?)) re- 
plied the king. « Because, sire,» answered his emi- 
nence, «it not only carries your majesty, but the 
*whole body of your privy council.)) From that mo- 
ment the king took the hint , and consequently the 
advice, and became one of the greatest monarchs 
of his time. 

INGRATITUDE. — SHERIDAN. 

A day or two after the performance of M r She- 
ridan's «School for Scandal,)) the author conver- 
sing with a friend, who was present, the first 
night it was played, on the manner in which it 
was received, asked him how M r Cumberland look- 
ed, ((For,» added he »I hear he was in a side-box. » 
«He was,» replied his friend, «and looked exactly 
like a statue, never stirring a muscle, nor giving 
the slightest indication of a laugh from beginning 
to end.» ((No,» replied Sheridan, «that was deuced 
ungrateful of him, for he had a tragedy come out 
last week, and I did nothing but laugh the whole 
time of its representation. » 



44 ANECDOTES. 

DUTIES OF A JUDGE AND COUNSEL. 

In the trial of the Dean of St. Asaph, M r Erskine 
put a question to the jury , relative to the mean- 
ing of their verdict. Mr. Justice Buller objec- 
ted to its propriety. The counsel reiterated his 
question , and demanded an answer. The judge 
again interposed his authority in these emphatic 
words: «Sit down,, Mr. Erskine \ know your duty, 
or I shall be obliged to make you know it.» Mr. 
Erskine, with equal warmth, replied, «I know my 
duty, as well. as your lordship knows yours. I stand 
here as the advocate of a fellow-citizen, and / will 
not sit down. » The judge was silent, and the ad- 
vocate persisted in his question. 

SPENSER AND SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

When the poet Spenser was living in Ireland, on 
a beautiful estate, given him by Queen Elisabeth, 
his friend Sir Walter Raleigh came to pay him 
a visit, and afterwards persuaded him to accompa- 
ny him to London, in order to publish his Fairy 
Queen. Campbell finely remarks on this interesting 
interview: «When we conceive Spenser reciting 
his compositions to Raleigh, in a scene so beauti- 
fully appropriate, the mind casts a pleasing retros- 
pect over that influence which the enterprise of 
the discoverer of Virginia , and the genius of the 
author of the « Faerie Queene» have respectively 
produced on the fortune and language of England. 

TRUE CONTENT. — BERKELEY. 

The very ingenious and amiable bishop Berkeley, 
of Clyne , in Ireland , was so perfectly satisfied 



ANECDOTES. 45 

with his income in that diocese, that when offer- 
ed by the Earl of Chesterfield (then lord lieute- 
nant) a bishopric much more valuable than the 
one he possessed, he declined it with these words: 
'< I love my neighbours and they love me 5 why then 
should I begin, in my old days, to form new con- 
nections, and tear myself from those friends, whose 
kindness is to me the greatest happiness I can 
enjoy?» Acting in this instance like the celebrated 
Plutarch, who being asked, why he resided in 
his native city so obscure and so little? «I stay,» 
said he, «lest it should grow less.» 

A BARGAIN. 

Sir Peter Lely, a famous painter in the reign of 
Charles 1, agreed for the price of a full-length 
portrait , which he was to draw for a rich alder- 
man of London, who was not indebted to nature 
either for shape or face. When the picture was 
finished, the alderman endeavoured to beat down 
the price, alleging that if he did not purchase it, 
it would lay on the painter's hands. «You mistake,)) 
replied Sir Peter, «for I can sell it at double the 
price I demand.» «How can that be,» says the al- 
derman, «for it is like nobody but myself?)) «But I 
will draw a tail to it, and then it will be an excel- 
lent monkey.)) Mr. alderman, to prevent exposure^ 
paid the sum agreed for, and carried off the picture. 

PARENTAL SACRIFICE. 

A Russian vessel, with several passengers, in des- 
cending the Wolga, was upset by a violent tempest, 
and most of the persons on board were drowned* 
A father with his son, and another man, sue- 



46 ANECDOTES. 

ceeded in getting upon a part of the wreck; but 
as it was not capable of sustaining all the three, 
and the violence of the winds and waves continu- 
ing ^ the father said to his son, «My child^ you 
are young; may heaven bless you! I am old and 
have lived long enough; it is right that I should 
save your life. » He made the sign of the cross, and 
plunged into the water, without the son's being 
able to prevent him, though he exerted all his 
remaining strength for that purpose. 

THE BITER BIT. 

Three robbers, having made a considerable booty 
at a small distance from a country town , agreed 
(as it was not expedient for all three to enter the 
town together) that one of them only should go 
and buy provisions, and bring them to the place of 
appointment in a wood. Whilst he was gone, the 
two who were left, consulted together, and in order 
to enlarge their share of the booty, determined to 
kill their comrade, as soon as he should return 
with their food. This was executed ; but their mur- 
dered companion, who had formed precisely the 
same design against them, had, after satisfying his 
own appetite, poisoned the food he brought them. 
Thus they all perished. 

SMUGGLING. 

A countryman was stopped by a custom-house 
officer, who took from him two casks of spirits, 
and carrying them to the next town (a distance of 
fifteen miles,) was desired by the countryman to 
stop and leave them at the first public-house. The 
officer replied, «No, I have seized them, and they 



ANECDOTES. 47 

must go to the excise office.)) «Not so, » said the 
countryman, «I have a little bit of paper here, 
which if you will take the trouble to read, will 
convince you I am right. » The officer read his 
paper, and exclaimed, «Why, you rascal, this is 
a permit, why did you not show it sooner ?« ((Be- 
cause,)) said he, «if I had, you would not have 
carried the liquor so far for me. » 

STAUNCH REPLY. 

General Kirk, who had served many years at 
Tangiers, after his return to England was pressed 
by James II, to become a proselyte to the catholic 
religion, as the most acceptable means of recom- 
mending himself to favour. As soon as the king 
had done speaking, Kirk expressed great concern 
that it was not in his power to comply with 
his majesty's desire, because he was really pre- 
engaged. The king smiled, and asked him what he 
meaned? ((When I was abroad,)) answered Kirk, «I 
promised the Emperor of Morocco , that if ever I 
changed my religion , I would turn Mahometan; I 
never broke my word in my life , and I must beg 
leave to say, I never will. » 

COMPLIMENT. - PRIOR. 

When Prior the poet was our ambassador at the 
court of France , a French nobleman once took him 
to the opera. They were both seated in the same 
box , and on an eminent performer beginning to 
sing, the count, as was then the custom, accom- 
panied him in a favourite air, in so loud a key, that 
the notes of the performer were drowned. Prior 
did not join in chorus , but broke out into violent 



48 



ANECDOTES. 



invectives against the Italian , who pretended to 
sing. «I wonder your excellency should not like 
him,» said the count, «he is allowed to have an ad- 
mirable voice.» «I believe he has,» replied the En- 
glishman, «but he sings so loud, that I cannot have 
the pleasure of hearing you.» 

SPORTING ANECDOTE. 

One of the most celebrated sporting characters 
of the last age, was the duke of Queensbury. He 
frequently rode his horses himself, and was gene- 
rally successful in the race. The duke did not, how- 
ever, confine his love of pastime to ordinary horse- 
racing, but executed schemes of expedition till then 
considered impracticable. He once laid a consider- 
able wager that he would convey a letter fifty 
miles within an hour, without the aid of horses, car- 
rier pigeons, etc. ; and this he effected by having 
it enclosed in a cricket-ball , which twenty-four 
expert cricket-players transferred to each other: 
by this means , the ball passed more than fifty 
miles within the given time. 

INTREPIDITY REWARDED. 

At the siege of Tortona, the commander of the 
army which lay before the town, ordered Carew, 
an Irish officer in the service of Naples, to advance 
with a detachment to a particular post. Having 
given his orders, he whispered Carew,— «Sir, I 
know you to be a gallant man; I have therefore 
put you upon this duty. I tell you in confidence, 
it is certain death to you all. I place you there 
to make the enemy spring a mine below you. » 
Clarew bowed to the general, and silently led his 



ANECDOTES. 



49 



men to the dreadful post. Fortunately, at that In- 
stant, Tortona capitulated; and Carew escaped that 
destruction, which he had so nobly displayed his 
readiness to encounter at the call of honour. 

RUSSIAN DISCIPLINE; 

In September, 1777, there happened at St. Pe- 
tersburg a sudden inundation, of a very considerable 
extent. The Empress, seeing from her balcony that 
the water was covering the sentinel placed before 
the palace, called out to him to retire within doors; 
which the soldier refused to do. The Empress ask- 
ed him if he knew her; the man replied in the 
affirmative , and that though he did know her 
majesty, no one but his corporal could relieve him. 
As the man's position was becoming very dange- 
rous, and he constantly refused to retire , orders 
were sent to the guard-house; when the corporal 
came to relieve him, only the head and shoulders 
of the poor fellow remained above water. 

THE CONSIDERATE DEBTOR. 

A prisoner in the Fleet lately sent to his creditor 
to let him know that he had a proposal to make 
to him, which he believed would be for their mu- 
tual benefit. The creditor accordingly hastened to 
call on him. «I have been thinking,)) said he, «that 
it is a very useless Jhing for me to lie here and 
put you to the expense of seven groats a week. 
My being so chargeable to you, has given me 
great uneasiness; and God knows what it may cost 
you in the end, for I may never be able to pay. 
What I propose, therefore, is, you shall let me 
out of prison , and instead of seven groats, you 

• 7 



50 ANECDOTES. 

shall allow me only five a week, and the other 
two shall go towards discharging the debt. » 

RESENTING A BLOW. 

An Englishman, once on a hunting party hastily 
struck a Peon, or East India foot-soldier, for hav- 
ing let loose a greyhound at an improper time. 
The man happened to belong to one of the high- 
est tribe of Hindoos. On receiving the blow he 
started back, with an appearance of horror and 
amazement, and drew his poignard. But again com- 
posing himself, and looking steadfastly at his mas- 
ter, he said, «I am your servant, and have long 
eaten your rice. The arm that has been nourished 
by you, shall not take away your life; but in spa- 
ring it, I must give up my own; as I cannot sur- 
vive my disgrace.» On pronouncing these words, 
he plunged the dagger into his bosom, and expired. 

QUEEN CAROLINE AND WHISTON. 

The late queen Caroline, who affected to patro- 
nize and converse with men of learning, was re- 
markably fond of the company of Whiston the 
astronomer. He once observed the queen at the 
Royal Chapel, whispering and talking to the ladies 
who attended her; and took an opportunity of in- 
forming her, that such levity was very unbecom- 
ing in a person of her exalted rank, and would 
be a bad example to others. The queen listened to 
the old philosopher with great attention; and when 
he had finished his reproof, told him, she took 
his freedom very kindly. «And now, Mr. Whiston, » 
added she « tell me of some other of my faults. » 



ANECDOTES 51 

«When your majesty condescends to correct that 
of which I have now told you, I will. » 

ABSTRACTION. — NEWTON. 

Sir Isaac Newton, finding himself extremely cold 
one winter's evening, drew a chair very close to 
the grate, in which a fire had recently heen light- 
ed. By degrees the fire having completely kindled, 
sir Isaac felt the heat intolerably intense, and rang 
his bell with unusual violence. His servant was 
not at hand at the moment, but soon made his 
appearance. By this time sir Isaac was almost li- 
terally roasted. ((Remove the grate, you lazy rascal, » 
he exclaimed in a tone of irritation very uncom- 
mon with that amiable and mild philosopher; 
«remove the grate before I am burned to death! » 
On the servant's remarking that it would be easier 
for him to draw back his chair; ((Upon my word, » 
said he, smiling, «I never thought of that. » 

THE NOTE OF INTERROGATION — POPE. 

Pope one evening poring over a Greek manu- 
script with Swift, Arbuthnot, etc., they found a 
sentence which they could not make out. A young 
officer, standing by the 1 fire, and who heard their 
conference, begged permission to look at the pas- 
sage. ((Oh,» says Pope, sarcastically, «by all means, 
pray let the young gentleman look at it. » Upon 
which the officer, took up the book, and consider- 
ing awhile, said there only wanted a note of in- 
terrogation, to make the whole intelligible. «And 
pray, sir, » says Pope, (piqued perhaps at being 
outdone by a red coat), «wnat is a note of interro- 
gation ? » <( A note of interrogation , » replied the 



52 



ANECDOTES, 



youth, with a look of contempt, ((is a little crook- 
ed thing which asks questions. » 

A STUDENT IN SPANISH. — ROWE. 

Rowe, the annotator on Shakspeare, was a fre- 
quent attendant on Lord Oxford's levees, as a 
suppliant for place. His lordship one day asked 
him if he knew Spanish; upon which Rowe sus- 
pecting that there might be some good thing in 
view, in Spain, answered that though he did not, 
he had no doubt he could soon learn it; and to 
prove his capability, he retired into the country, 
and totally devoted his time to that language; so 
that in a few months, he again presented himself 
at the levee, with the information that he knew 
Spanish. Great indeed must have been his disap- 
pointment when Lord Oxford simply answered, 
«Then, sir, I envy you the pleasure of being able 
to read Don Quixote in the original.)) 

FILIAL LOVE. 

An aged couple in New York were, in the win- 
ter of 1783, reduced to their last stick of wood. 
Their only daughter, by whose industry alone 
they had long been supported, had no means of 
procuring her parents fuel or food. In this distres- 
sing emergency, she resolved to go to a dentist, 
to dispose of her front-teeth, knowing that he had 
advertised to give three guineas for every sound 
tooth, provided he were allowed to extract it him- 
self. On her arrival, she made known the circum- 
stances which induced her to make the sacrifice; 
which so affected the dentist, that he could not for- 
bear shedding tears. He made her a present of 



ANECDOTES. . 53 

ten guineas; with which, her heart overflowing 
with joy, she hastened home to relieve her parents. 

ROYAL REWARD. — FREDERICK THE GREAT. 

A corporal of the life-guards of Frederick the 
Great, who had a great deal of vanity y but was a 
brave fellow ^ wore a watch-chain, to which he 
affixed a musket-ball instead of a watch, which he 
was unable to buy. The king, wishing to rally 
him, said, «You must have been very frugal, cor- 
poral, to have been able to buy a watch; it is six 
o'clock by mine, tell me what it is by your's. » The 
soldier, who guessed the king's intention, instantly 
drew the bullet from his fob, and said, ((Sire, my 
watch marks no hour, but it tells me every moment 
that it is my duty to die for your majesty! » «Here, 
my friend, » said the king , quite affected , « take 
this watch, that you may be able to tell the hour 
also: » and he gave him his own watch, whicK 
was adorned with brilliants. 

ORIGIN OF NEWSPAPERS. 

It may gratify national pride to be told that 
mankind are indebted to the wisdom of Elisabeth, 
and the prudence of Burleigh for the first newspa- 
per. The English Mercurie, imprinted by autho- 
rity, at London by her highness's printer in 
1588, is the earliest example of a newspaper. 
The epoch chosen was that of the Spanish Ar- 
mada; it was dictated by a wise policy to pre- 
vent, during a moment of general anxiety, the 
danger of false reports, by publishing real in- 
formation; it also inflamed national feeling by 
giving extracts from letters received from Ma- 



54 AMECDOTES. 

dridj wherein they spoke of the threats of the 
Spaniards, such as putting the queen to death* and 
gave a list of the instruments of torture on 
board the Spanish fleet. 

NO DISTINCTION AT THE GALLOWS. 

A highwayman and a chimney-sweeper were 
condemned to he hanged at the same time at Ty- 
burn; the first for an exploit on the highway, the 
latter for a more ignoble robbery. The highwayman 
was dressed in scarlet, and mounted the cart with 
alacrity; the chimney-sweep followed him slowly. 
While the clergyman was praying with fervour, 
the gay robber was attentive , and the other ap- 
proached nearer to his fellow-sufferer, to partake 
of the same benefit, but met with a repulsive look 
from his companion, which kept him at some dis- 
tance. But, forgetting the angry warning, he pre- 
sumed still to come nearer ; when the highway- 
man, with some disdain , said, «Keep further off, 
can't you.» «Sir,» replied the sweep, «I won't 
keep off: I have as much right to be here as you. » 

RESPECT TO OLD MEN. 

One of the lessons most frequently, and most 
strongly inculcated upon the Lacedemonian youth, 
was, to show a great respect and reverence to old 
men, and give them proofs of it upon all occasions, 
by saluting them, by making way for them in the 
streets, by rising up to do them honour in all com- 
panies and public assemblies, but above all, by 
receiving their advice, and even their reproofs, 
with docility and submission. The following trait 
is an instance of this. — An old man of Athens 



ANECDOTES. 55 

going to the theatre to see a play , none of his 
countrymen offered him a seat; hut when he came 
near the place where the Spartan ambassadors and 
the gentlemen of their retinue were sitting, they 
all rose up out of reverence to his age, and seat- 
ed him in the midst of them. 

FRIENDLY WARMTH. — ADDISON. 

Addison and Mr. Stanyan were very intimate. 
In the familiar conversations that passed between 
them, they were accustomed freely to dispute each 
other's opinions. Upon some occasion, Mr Addison 
lent Mr. Stanyan five hundred pounds. After this, 
Mr. Stanyan behaved with a timid reserve, defer- 
ence, and respect; not conversing with the same 
freedom as formerly, or opposing his friend's sen- 
timents. This gave great uneasiness to Mr. Addison. 
One day they happened to fall out upon a subject, 
on which Mr. Stanyan had always firmly opposed 
his opinion; but, even upon this occasion, he gave 
way to what, his friend advanced, without inter- 
posing his own view of the matter. This hurt Mr. 
Addison so much^ that he cried out, « Either contra- 
dict me, or pay me back the money I lent you.» 

DISOBEDIENCE OF ORDERS. 

A naval commander in the reign of Queen Anne, 
was ordered to cruise, within certain limits, on the 
coast of Spain. Having received information that 
a Spanish fleet was in Vigo, beyond his limits, he 
resolved to risk his personal responsibility for the 
good of his country ; he accordingly attacked and 
defeated the Spanish fleet, with uncommon gallant- 
ry. When he joined the admiral under whom he 



56 ANECDOTES. 

served, he was put under arrest, and was asked, 
«If he did not know that, hy the articles of war, 
he was liable to be shot, for disobedience of or- 
ders? » He replied with great composure, «That he 
was very sensible that he was,» but added, «the 
man who is afraid to risk his life in any way, 
when the good of his country requires it, is un- 
worthy of a command in her majesty 's service. » 

A PRIME MINISTER IN A PREDICAMENT. 

Sir Robert Walpole, who lay under certain elec- 
tioneering obligations to a man of some weight 
in a western borough, had often promised him a 
place, and as often pleaded prior engagements. «He 
was sorry for it, but a certain great man must be 
obliged; however, he might depend on the next, 
and so on. » After repeated disappointments of this 
kind, the man began to despair, when a land- 
surveyor being killed by the fall of a sugar cask, 
he again waited on sir Robert, who told him that 
the place had been promised a twelve-month; «But 
my dear friend_,» added he «the very next that 
becomes vacant, you shall have it, upon my honour. » 
uWhy then, sir Robert, » replied he, «I am the 
luckiest fellow alive , for the same cask knocked 
down a brother officer, and there are two vacan- 
cies at this moment.)) 

SINGULAR FIDELITY OF A PORTUGUESE 
NOBLEMAN. 

It is commonly remarked, and perhaps the max- 
im is too true , « that a king cannot have a true 
friend.» But Antonio, king of Portugal, who died 
at Paris, 1595, had the singular good fortune to 



ANECDOTES. 57 

be blessed with the attachment of one- person, which 
nothing could dissolve. This unfortunate prince, 
who could neither enjoy , nor would relinquish 
his crown, passed several years in great poverty: 
but no misfortunes could detach don Diego Bothri, 
a Portuguese nobleman, from the interests of his 
sovereign. He attended him as his domestic, with 
unexampled fidelity, and all the recompense he 
desired, was, to be buried at the feet of his dear 
master. The ancients would have raised altars to 
the memory of so rare an instance of friendship; 
but the moderns would be inclined to dispute its 
truth, did not history confirm it. 



ABSENCE OF MIND. 



Among the various instances which have been 
recorded of absent men, few are more remarkable 
than the count de Brancas presents. The following is 
one of the laughable anecdotes of this extraordinary 
person. The count was walking in the street, and 
the duke de la Rochefoucault crossed the way to 
speak to him. «God bless thee, poor man, » exclaim- 
ed the count. Rochefoucault smiled, and was be- 
ginning to address himi. «Is it not enough, » cried 
the count, interrupting him , and somewhat in a 
passion, «is it not enough that I have said at first, 
I have nothing for you? such lazy beggars as you 
hinder a gentleman from walking in the streets. » 
Rochefoucault burst into a loud laugh , and awa- 
kening the absent man from his lethargy, he was 
not a little surprised himself, that he should have 
taken his friend for an importunate mendicant. 



58 ANECDOTES. 

MILITARY DEVOTION. 

In the war of La Vendee, general Klebeir, with 
four thousand men, was completely surrounded by 
an overwhelming force of the enemy; and saw no 
other way of saving his little band, except by stopping, 
for a short time, the passage of the Vendeans through 
a narrow ravine, which was all that was between 
the two armies. He called an officer to him, for 
whom he had a particular friendship and esteem: 
«Take,» said he to him, «a company of grenadiers; 
stop the enemy before that ravine; you will be kill- 
ed, but you will save your comrades. » « I shall 
obey your orders , general,)) replied the officer; 
who received the order with as much calmness, 
as if it had been a simple military evolution. The 
prediction of Kleber was but too fatally verified. 
The brave officer arrested the enemy's progress, 
but perished in the achievement. 

STRANGE FORGETFULNESS. — NEWTON. 

The late Dr. Stukely one day, by appointment, 
paid a visit to sir Isaac Newton. The servant said he 
was in his study. No one was permitted to disturb 
him there; but as it was near his dinner time, the 
visitor sate down to wait for him. In a short time, 
a boiled chicken under a cover was brought in, for 
dinner. An hour passed, and sir Isaac did not appear. 
The doctor then ate the fowl and covering up the 
empty dish , desired the servant to get another 
dressed for his master. Before that was ready, the 
great man came down. He apologized for his delay, 
and added: «give me but leave to take my short 
dinner, and I shall be at your service; I am fatigued 
and faint.» Saying this, he lifted up the empty 



ANECDOTES. 59 

cover, and without any emotion, turned about to 
Stukely with a smile: «See,» says he, «what we stu- 
dious people are ; I had forgotten that I had dined. » 

NOBLE CRITICISM - POPE, LORD HALIFAX. 

When Pope was first introduced to read his 
translation of Homer to Lord Halifax, the noble 
critic did not venture to be dissatisfied generally 
with this remarkable performance, but frequently 
stopped him, suggesting such and such verbal 
changes. Vexed, and not knowing how to manage 
in order not to offend his noble patron, and at the 
same time to save certain passages, which had cost 
him much labour, and which he himself particu- 
larly preferred, he applied to D r Garth for his 
advice. «Oh», replied Garth, laughing, « nothing 
can be easier, do what I have done a hundred 
times with his lordship , and I will guarantee your 
success. Read the same passages over without any 
change , and, my life on it, he will be satisfied. 
Pope did so, and the delighted critic exclaimed, 
«Dear Pope, they are now inimitable.)) 

POLITENESS — D r JOHNSON AND M rs THRALE. 

D r Johnson, once taking tea at M rs Thrale's, on 
the waiter being presented to him , made use of 
his fingers to supply his cup with sugar. The lady 
remarked this, and in order to make the doctor 
feel his indecorum, immediately ordered the su- 
gar-basin to be taken away, and fresh sugar brought 
in. Johnson paid no attention to this at the mo- 
ment; but having drunk his usual number of cups, 
on finishing, he threw his cup and saucer under 
the grate. The noise of the crash made the com-* 



60 ANECDOTES. 

pany start, and M rs Thrale screamed out, « Heavens! 
doctor, what are you about? you have spoiled my 
best set of china. » « Madam », replied Johnson, « I 
should be sorry for what I have done, if I had not 
been actuated by good breeding; for, if I have defi- 
led your sugar-basin by my touch, what must the 
application of my lips have produced on your cup. 

SHAKSPEARE'S THEATRE. 

The Globe, at which most of Shakspeare's plays 
were acted, was partly covered in, and partly ex- 
posed to the weather, and the performances always 
took place by day-light. What is now the spit, was 
then probably occupied by persons who remained 
standing, and who paid 6 d : whilst at the minor 
theatres, the price was only l d . The boxes, or rooms 
as they were then called, were I s . The critics and 
wits were admitted on the stage, where stools were 
placed for their accommodation ; and their pages 
furnished them with pipes and tobacco , which 
were smoked here, as well as in other parts of 
the house. The stage was covered with rushes, 
and the curtains opened in the middle, and were 
drawn backwards on an iron rod. Several of these 
curtains, placed at different intervals, supplied the 
place of our scenery. Such was the apparatus, 
used to heighten the reality of the scenes produ- 
ced by our inimitable dramatist. 

THE EMPEROR JOSEPH. 

Joseph II, Emperor of Germany when at Pa- 
ris, amused himself daily, by mixing with the 
people, and often going into coffee-houses incognito. 
On one of these occasions, he met with a person with 



ANECDOTES. 61 

whom he played at chess. The emperor lost the game, 
and wished to play another; but the gentleman 
desired to be excused, saying, he must go to the 
Opera to see the emperor. «What do you expect 
to see in the emperor, » said Joseph; a there is no- 
thing worth seeing in him, I can assure you; he is 
just like another man. » «No matter, » said the 
gentleman, <; I have long had an irresistible curio- 
sity to see him; he is a very great man, and I will 
not be disappointed.)) «And is that really your 
only motive,)) said the emperor, «for going to the 
Opera?» «It really is, » replied the gentleman. « Well 
then, if that is the case, we may as well play 
another game now , for you see him before you ». 



SHUT THE DOOR. - SWIFT. 

Dean Swift, though a good master, was very 
rigid with his servants. The task of hiring them 
was always entrusted to his housekeeper; but the 
only two positive commands he had for them, he 
generally delivered himself; these were, to shut 
the door whenever they came into, or went out of 
a room. One of his maid-servants one day asked 
permission to go to her sisters wedding, at a place 
about ten miles distant. Swift not only consented, 
but lent her one of his own horses, and ordered 
his servant to ride before her. The girl , in the 
ardour of joy for this favour, forgot to shut the 
door after her, when she left the room. In about 
a quarter of an hour after her departure, the dean 
sent a servant after her, to order her immediate 
return. The poor girl obeyed, and entering his 
presence, begged to know in what she had offend- 
ed, or what her master wished. «Only shut the 



6& ANECDOTES. 

door,» said the dean, «and then resume your 
journey. » 

AN UNDER-CHARGE. - JOSEPH II. 

Joseph II, travelling in his usual way|, with- 
out his retinue, attended by a single aide-de-camp 
only, arrived very late at the house of an En- 
glishman, who kept an inn in the Netherlands. 
It being fair-time, and the house very crowd- 
ed, the host, ignorant of his guest's quality, 
appointed them to sleep in an out-house, which 
they readily complied with; and after eating a few 
slices of bacon and biscuit , retired to rest; and 
in the morning paid their bill, which amount- 
ed to three shillings and six-pence, and rode off. 
A few hours after, several of his suite coming to 
enquire for him, and the publican understanding 
the rank of his guest, appeared very uneasy. « Pshaw, 
pshaw, man, » said one of the attendants, « Joseph 
is accustomed to such adventures, and will think 
no more of it.» «But I shall, » replied the land- 
lord, « for I can never forget the circumstance, nor 
forgive myself either, for having had an emperor 
in my house , and letting him off for three and 
six-pence. » 

WHICH IS THE KING. - HENRY IV. 

Henry IV, of France, being one day a hunting, lost 
his party, and was riding alone. Observing a coun- 
try-fellow standing on a gate, apparently on the 
watch, he asked him what he was looking for. «I 
am come here,» said he, «to see the king. » «Get 
up behind me, » replied the king, «and I will soon 
conduct you to a place where you may see him.» 



ANECDOTES. 65 

Hodge, without any hesitation, mounted; hut as 
they were riding along, he put this question to 
his companion: «They tell me he has a number 
of noblemen with him; how shall I know which 
is he?»The king replied, « that he might distinguish 
him by remarking that all his attendants took off 
their hats, while the king alone remained covered.)) 
Soon after they joined the hunt, when all the 
circle, as may well be expected, were greatly sur- 
prised to see his majesty so oddly attended. When 
they were arrived, the king, turning to the clown, 
asked him if he could tell which was the king? 
«I don't know,» answered he, «but faith it must 
be one of us two, for we've both got our hats on. » 



THE FREETHINKER PUNISHED. - MALLET. 

Mallet was so fond of being thought a sceptic, 
that he indulged this weakness on all occasions. His 
wife, it is said, was a complete convert to his doc- 
trines, and even the servants stared at their master's 
bold arguments, without being all poisoned by their 
influence. One fellow, however, who united a bad 
heart to an unsettled head, was determined to 
practice what Mallet was so solicitous to propagate; 
and robbed his master's house. Being pursued, and 
brought before a magistrate, Mallet attended, and 
taxed him severely with ingratitude and dishonesty. 
«Sir,» said the fellow, «I have often heard you 
talk of the impossibility of a future state; that, 
after death, there was neither reward for virtue, 
nor punishment for vice; and this tempted me to 
commit the robbery. » «Well, but you rascal, » 
replied Mallet, «had you no fear of the gallows? » 
« Master,)) said the culprit, looking steadfastly at 



64 ANECDOTES. 

him, « what is it to you if I had a mind to venture 
that; you had removed my greatest terror, why 
should I fear the lesser ?» 

VALUE OF MANUSCRIPTS. 

There have heen ages when, for the possession 
of a manuscript, some would transfer an estate,, 
or leave in pawn, for its loan, hundreds of gold 
crowns; and when the sale., or even the loan of a 
manuscript, was considered of such importance as 
to have been solemnly registered by public acts. 
Absolute as was Louis XI, he could not obtain the 
MS. of an Arabian Writer, to make a copy, from 
the library of the faculty of Paris, without pledg- 
ing a hundred gold crowns; and the president of 
his treasury, charged with this commission, sold 
part of the King's plate to make this deposit. This 
occurred in 1471. A countess of Anjou, at an 
anterior period, bought a favourite book of homi- 
lies for two hundred sheep, some skins of martins, 
and abundance of bushels of wheat and rye. A 
student of Pavia, who was reduced in his cir- 
cumstances raised a new fortune by leaving in 
pawn a manuscript of a body of laws; and a gram- 
marian, who was ruined by fire, rebuilt his house 
with two small volumes of Cicero. 

A FRIEND IN NEED - THOMSON AND QUIN. 

Thomson the poet, when he first came up to 
London, was in such indigent circumstances as not 
even to have the means of buying a pair of shoes. 
Some time after the publication of his seasons, 
one of his creditors caused him to be arrested, 
and he was carried off to prison. Whilst there 



ANECDOTES. 65 

he one day received a visit from Quin the come- 
dian. After the usual preliminaries of politeness, 
Quin told him that he was come to pay him L1 00, 
for which sum he was his debtor. Thomson, 
aware of the gentleman's character, thought this 
was some joke, and could not help expressing his 
astonishment that such a moment should be chosen 
to add insult to his misery. «I assure you», said 
Quin, «that my intention is very far from insult- 
ing you. The fact is, on reading your Seasons, 
I experienced such extraordinary delight, that I 
immediately put you down in my will for L100. 
Hearing of your present embarrassment, I thought 
this sum might be more useful to you at the present 
moment, and I am therefore come to acquit, a 
little before-hand, a debt, which will one day be 
your due.» Thomson's satisfaction and gratitude 
may be easily imagined. 

HEROISM — ADMIRAL KEPPEL. 

When admiral Keppel was sent to the dey of 
Algiers to demand restitution of two ships which 
the pirates had taken, he sailed, with his squadron, 
into the bay of Algiers, and cast anchor in front 
of the dey's palace. He' then landed, and attended 
only by his captain and boat's crew , demanded 
an immediate audience of the dey. This being 
granted, he claimed full satisfaction for the in- 
juries done to the subjects of his Britannic ma- 
jesty. Surprised, and enraged at the boldness of 
the admiral's remonstrance, the dey exclaimed, 
«That he wondered at the king's insolence in send- 
ing him a foolish, beardless boy.» A well-timed 
reply from the admiral made the dey forget the 

9 



66 ANECDOTES. 

laws of all nations, in respect to ambassadors, and 
he ordered his mutes to attend with the bow-string; 
at the same time telling the admiral, he should 
pay for his audacity with his life. Unmoved with 
this menace, the admiral took the dey to a win- 
dow facing the hay, and showed him the English 
fleet riding at anchor, and told him, that «If he 
dared to put him to death, there were English- 
men enough in that fleet to make him a glorious 
funeral pile. » The dey was wise enough to take 
the hint. The admiral obtained ample restitu- 
tion, and came off in safety. 



DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ECONOMY AND 
AVARICE. 

When collection was making to build the hos- 
pital of Bedlam , those who were employed to 
gather the money, came to a small house, the 
door of which was half open. From the entry, 
they heard an old man scolding his servant-maid, 
who y having made use of a match to light the 
fire, had afterwards, indiscretely, thrown it away, 
without reflecting that the match, having still the 
sulphur at the other end, might be of further 
service. After diverting themselves awhile, with 
listening to the dispute , they knocked , and pre- 
sented themselves before the old gentleman. As 
soon as they told him the cause of their visit, he 
went into a closet, from whence he brought four 
hundred guineas; and reckoning the money in 
their presence, put it into their bag. The collectors 
being astonished at this generosity , which they 
little expected, could not help testifying their sur- 
prise , and told the old fellow what they had 



ANECDOTES. 67 

heard. « Gentlemen , » said he , « your surprise is 
occasioned by a thing of little consequence; I keep 
house, and save or spend money my own way; 
the one furnishes me with the means of doing 
the other, and both equally gratify my inclina- 
tions. With regard to benefactions and donations, 
always expect most from prudent people who keep 
their accounts. » 

A COURTIER'S QUERY. 

Soon after lord Chesterfield came into the privy 
council, a place of great trust became vacant, to 
which his majesty (George II) and the duke of 
Dorset recommended two very different persons. 
The king espoused the interest of his friend, with 
some heat, and told them he would be obeyed; 
but not being able to carry his point , left the 
council-chamber in great displeasure. As soon as 
he retired, the matter was warmly debated, but 
at length carried against the king; because, if they 
once gave him his way, he would expect it again, 
and it would at length become a precedent. How- 
ever, in the humour the king then was, a ques- 
tion arose concerning who should carry the grant 
of the office for the royal signature, and the lot 
fell upon Chesterfield. His lordship expected to 
find his sovereign in a very unfavourable mood, 
and he was not disappointed. He, therefore, pru- 
dently forbore incensing him , by an abrupt re- 
quest, and instead of bluntly asking him to sign 
the instrument , very submissively requested to 
know whose name his majesty would have inser- 
ted to fill up the blanks. The king answered in 
a passion, «The devil's, if you wiil!» uVery well,» 
replied the earl, «but would your majesty have 



68 



ANECDOTES. 



the instrument run in the usual style — Our trusty 
and well beloved cousin and counsellor?)) The mo- 
narch laughed , and with great good humour sign- 
ed the paper. 

DEATH OF SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

This nobleman, who suffered death hy an unjust 
sentence in the reign of James I, furnishes a remark- 
able instance of courage in meeting death. On the 
morning appointed for his execution, he smoked his 
favourite tobacco with his usual tranquillity. When 
on the scaffold he called to the heads-man to show 
him the axe, which not being instantly done, he 
repeated, «I pray thee, let me see it, —do you think 
I am afraid of it? » He passed his finger slightly 
over the edge, and smiling observed to the sheriff, 
«This is a sharp medicine, but a sure cure for all 
diseases. » He then requested the executioner not to 
strike till he gave a token by lifting his hand, «And 
then fear not, but strike home. » When he laid his 
head on the block, the executioner desired him to 
turn his face towards the east. «It is no great 
matter which way a man's head lay,» he said, «so 
his heart lay right. » But these were not his last 
words. He was once more to speak in this -world 
with the same intrepidity he had lived in it, for 
having lain some moments on the block, in pray- 
er, he gave the signal: but the executioner either 
unmindful, or in fear, failed to strike, and Ra- 
leigh, after once or twice putting forth his hand, 
was compelled to ask «why do you not strike? 
Strike, man, strike.)) In two blows he was behead- 
ed 5 but from the first , his body never shrunk 
from the spot, as if, like his mind, it was im- 
movable. 



ANECDOTES. 69 

FASTING AND PRAYING. - SWIFT. 

As the late dean Swift was once upon a jour- 
ney , attended by a servant, they put up at an 
inn, where they lodged all night. In the mor- 
ning , the dean called for his boots ; the servant 
immediately took them to him. When the dean 
saw them, «How is this Tom,» said be, «my boots 
are not clean ?» «No, sir,» replied Tom, «as you 
are going to ride, I thought they would soon be 
dirty again, so I did not clean them.» « Very 
well,» said the doctor, «go and get the horses 
ready. » In the mean time the dean ordered the 
landlord to let his servant have no breakfast. 
When the servant returned, he asked if the hor- 
ses were ready. «Yes, sir,» was the answer. «Go, 
bring them out,» said the doctor. « I have not had 
my breakfast yet,» replied Tom. «Oh, no matter 
for that.,» said his master, « if you had, you would 
soon be hungry again.)) They mounted, and rode 
off. As they rode, the dean pulled a book out of 
his pocket, and began to read. A gentleman met 
thenr, and seeing the doctor reading, was not wil- 
ling to disturb him, but passed by till he met 
the servant. «Who is that gentleman?)) said he 
to the man. «My master, sir, » replied Tom. «I 
know that, you blockhead,)) said the gentleman, 
«but where are you going ?» «To heaven, sir,» 
says Tom. «How do you know that,» said the 
gentleman? « Because I am fasting, and my mas- 
ter is praying, sir. )> 

COURTLY PICTURE. — HENRY IV. 

The Spanish ambassador at the court of Henry 
IV, of France, was one day enquiring of him the 



70 ANECDOTES. 

character of his ministers. «You shall see what 
they are, in a minute, » said the king. On seeing 
M. de Silleri, the chancellor, come into the draw- 
ing-room, he said to him, «Sir, I am very uneasy 
about a heam that is good for nothing, and which 
seems to threaten to fall upon my head.» «Sire, » 
replied the chancellor, «you should consult your 
architect ; let every thing be well examined , and 
let him go to work.» Henry next saw M. de Vil- 
leroi , to whom he spoke as he had done to Sil- 
leri. «Sire,» answered Villeroi, without looking 
at the beam, «you are right, the beam is exces- 
sively dangerous.)) At last, the president Jeannin 
came in, to whom Henry made a similar address 
as to the former ministers. «Sire,» said the pre- 
sident, «I do not know what you mean, the beam 
is a very good one.)> «But, » replied the king, 
«do I not see the light through the crevices, or 
is my head disordered?)) «Be quite at your ease, 
sire,» returned Jeannin, «the beam will last as 
long as you will. » Then turning to the Spanish 
minister, Henry observed to him: «Now I think 
you are acquainted with the character of my mi- 
nisters — the chancellor has no opinion at all; 
Villeroi is always of my opinion; and Jeannin 
speaks as he really thinks, and always thinks pro- 
perly.)) 

THE PTOPY. — STERNE. 

The following incident,, which occurred at an 
early period of Mr. Sterne's literary career, con- 
tributed much to establish his reputation as a wit. 
There was a coffee-room in the principal inn of 
the town he lived in, where gentlemen who fre- 
quented the house might read the newspapers. 



ANECDOTES. 7l 

One of the greatest enjoyments of Yorick's life, 
was spending an inoffensive hour in a snug cor- 
ner of this room. There was a troop of horse at 
that time quartered in the town. One of the offi- 
cers was a gay young man, spoiled by the free 
education of the world, hut not destitute of good 
qualities. This young gentleman was remarkable 
for his free conversation, and pointed reflections 
against the clergy. The modest Yorick was often 
constrained to hear toasts he could not approve, 
and conversations shocking to the ear of delicacy; 
and was frequently obliged to remove his seat, or 
pretend deafness. The captain, resolved this con- 
duct should no longer avail him, seated himself 
by Yorick, so as to prevent his retreat, and im- 
mediately began a profane, indecent tale, at the 
expense of the clerical profession, with his eyes 
steadfastly fixed on Sterne, who pretended for 
some time not to notice his ill-manners. When 
that became impossible, he turned to the military 
intruder, and gravely said, «Now, sir, you shall 
hear my story: my father is an officer, and is 
so brave himself, that he is fond of every thing 
which is brave, even his dog. You must know we 
have at this time , one of the finest creatures in 
the world of its kind;' the most spirited, yet the 
best natured that can be imagined; so lively that 
he charms every body — but he has a cursed trick, 
that throws a strong shade over all his good qua- 
lities.)) «Pray, what may that be ?» interrogated 
the officer. «He never sees a clergyman, but he 
instantly flies at him,» answered Yorick. «How 
long has he had that trick ?» «Why, sir,» replied 
the divine, with a significant look, never since he 
was a puppy. » 



7£ ANECDOTES. 

A DUEL - YOUNG. 

Dr. Young was once on a party of pleasure with 
a few young ladies, going by water to Vauxhall; 
and he amused them with a tune on the german- 
flute. Behind him several officers were also in a 
boat, rowing to the same place y and soon came 
along side that in which were the doctor and his 
party. The doctor, who was not conceited of his 
playing, put up his flute on their approach. One 
of the officers instantly asked why he ceased play- 
ing. «For the same reason, » said he, «that I 
played before., to please myself. » The son of Mars 
very peremptorily rejoined, that if he did not 
instantly resume his flute_, and continue his musio, 
he would throw him into the Thames. The doc- 
tor, in order to allay the fear of the ladies, pock- 
eted the insult, and determined to play all the 
way up the river. During the evening, however, 
he observed the officer by himself, in one of the 
walks, and approaching him, said with great cool- 
ness, (dl; was, sir, to avoid interrupting the har- 
mony of the company, that I complied, with your 
arrogant demand; but, that you may be satisfied 
courage may be found under a black coat, as well 
as under a red one , I expect that you will meet 
me to-morrow morning, at a certain place, with- 
out any second , the quarrel being between us 
two.» The doctor further covenanted, that the 
affair should be decided by swords; to all which 
conditions the officer consented. The duellists 
met; but the moment the officer took his ground^ 
the doctor pulled out a horse-pistol. «What,» 
said the officer, «do you intend to assassinate me?» 
«No,» replied the doctor, ((but you shall instantly 



ANECDOTES. 73 

put up your sword, and dance a minuet, or you 
are a dead man.» The officer began to bluster, 
but the doctor was resolute, and he was obliged 
to comply. «Now,» said Young, «you forced me 
to play against my will , and I have made you 
dance against yours ; we are therefore again on 
a level, and whatever other satisfaction you may 
require, I am ready to give it.» The officer ac- 
knowledged his error, and the affair terminated in 
a lasting friendship. 



10 



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THE WHISTLE. 



When I was a child of seven years old, my 
friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with half- 
pence. I went directly to a shop where they sold 
toys for children; and, being charmed with the 
sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the 
hands of another boy , I voluntarily offered , and 
gave all my money for it. I then came home, 
and went whistling all over the house, much pleas- 
ed with my whistle^ but disturbing all the family. 
My brothers^ and sisters, and cousins, understand- 
ing the bargain I had made, told me I had given 
four times as much for it as it was worth: this put 
me in mind what good things I might have bought 
with the rest of the money; and they laughed at me 
so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; 
and the reflection gave me more chagrin than 
the whistle gave me pleasure. 

This however was afterwards of use to me, the 
impression continuing on my mind: so that often.. 



78 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

when I was tempted , to buy some unnecessary 
thing, I said to myself, Dorit give too much for 
the whistle; and I saved my money. 

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed 
the actions of men, I thought I met with many, 
very many, who gave too much for the whistle. 

When I saw one too ambitious of court favour, 
sacrificing his time in attendance on levies, his 
repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his 
friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, This 
man gives too much for his whistle. 

When I saw another fond of popularity, con- 
stantly employing himself in political bustles, 
neglecting his own affairs , and ruining them by 
that neglect, He pays indeed, said I, too much 
for his whistle. 

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of 
comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good 
to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, 
and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake 
of accumulating wealth, Poor man, said I, you pay 
too much for your whistle. 

When I met with a man of pleasure ; sacrific- 
ing every laudable improvement of the mind, or 
of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and 
ruining his health in their pursuit, Mistaken man, 
said I, you are providing pain for yourself instead 
of pleasure, you give too much for your whistle. 

If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, 
fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all 
above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, 
and ends his career in a prison, Alas I said I, he 
has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle. 

In short, I conceive that great part of the mise- 
ries of mankind are brought upon them by the 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 79 

false estimate they have made of the value of 

things ; and by their giving too much for their 

whistles. 

B. Franklin. 



ON CASTLES IN THE AIR. 

Alnaschar was a very idle fellow, who never 
would set his hand to any business during his 
father's life. When his father died, he left him 
to the value of a hundred drachmas in Persian 
money. Alnaschar, in order to make the best of 
it, laid it out in glasses, bottles, and the finest 
earthen-ware. These he piled up in a large open 
basket, and having made choice of a very little 
shop,, placed the basket at his feet, and leaned his 
back against the wall, in expectation of customers. 
As he sate in this posture, with his eyes upon the 
basket, he fell into a most amusing train of thought, 
and was overheard by one of the neighbours, as 
he talked to himself, in the following manner: 
«This basket,» says he, «cost me, at the wholesale 
merchant's, a hundred drachmas, which is all I 
have in the world; I shall quickly make two hun- 
dred of it, by selling it in retail. These two hun- 
dred drachmas, will, in a little while, rise to four 
hundred, which, of course, will amount in time 
to four thousand: four thousand drachmas cannot 
fail of making eight thousand. As soon as by this 
means I am master of ten thousand, I will lay 
aside my trade as glass-man, and turn jeweller. I 
shall then deal in diamonds, pearls, and all sorts 
of rich stones. When I have got together as much 
wealth as I can well desire , I will make a pur- 
chase of the finest house I can find, with lands, 



80 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

slaves, and horses. I shall then begin to enjoy 
myself, and make a noise in the world. I will 
not, however, stop there, but continue my traf- 
fic till I have got together a hundred thousand 
drachmas. When I have thus made myself master 
of a hundred thousand drachmas, I shall naturally 
set myself on the footing of a prince , and will 
demand the grand vizier's daughter in marriage; 
after having represented to that minister the in- 
formation which I have received of the beauty, 
wit, discretion, and other high qualities which his 
daughter possesses , I will let him know , at the 
same time, that it is my intention to make him 
a present of a thousand pieces of gold, on our 
marriage day. As soon as I have married the grand 
vizier's daughter, I will buy her ten black slaves, 
the youngest, and the best, that can be got for 
money. I must afterwards make my father-in-law 
a visit, with a great train and equipage, and when 
I am placed at his right hand, which he will do 
of course, if it be only to honour his daughter, 
I will give him the thousand pieces of gold which 
I promised him; and afterwards, to his great sur- 
prise, I will present him with another purse of 
the same value, with some short speech; as, «Sir, 
you see I am a man of my word, I always give 
more than I promise. » 

«When I have brought the princess to my house, 
I shall take particular care to breed in her a due 
respect for me , before I give way to my love. 
To this end I shall confine her to her own apart- 
ment, make her a short visit, and talk but little 
to her. Her women will represent to me, that 
she is inconsolable, by reason of my unkindness, 
and beg me with tears to caress her, and let her 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 81 

sit down by me; but I will still remain inexorable. 
Her mother will then come and bring her daughter 
to me, as I am seated on my sopha. The daughter, 
with tears in her eyes, will fling herself at my 
feet, and beg of me to receive her into my favour. 
Then will I, to imprint in her a thorough vene- 
ration for my person, draw up my leg, and spurn 
her from me with my foot, in such a manner, 
that she shall fall down several paces from the 
sopha. » 

Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chi- 
merical vision, and could not forbear acting with 
his foot, what he had in his thoughts: so that un- 
luckily striking his basket of brittle ware_, which 
was the foundation of all his grandeur, he kicked 
his glasses to a great distance from him into the 
street, and broke them into ten thousand pieces. 

This is a humorous ridicule upon the foolish 
vanity of building castles in the air, and idly wast- 
ing that time, in empty flattering schemes, which 
might have been ■ usefully employed in attending 
to our own business. 

Guardian. 



THE FOLLY OF DISPUTING UPON TRIFLES. 

One morning Griselda and her husband were 
present, while Emma was busy showing some poor 
children how to plait straw for hats. 

«Next summer, my dear, when we are settled 
at home, I hope you will encourage some manu- 
facture of this kind among our tenants, » said Mr. 
Bolingbroke to his lady. 

11 



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«I have no genius for teaching manufactures of 
this sort,» replied Mrs. Bolingbroke, scornfully. 

Her husband urged the matter no further. A 
few minutes afterwards, he drew out a straw from 
a bundle, which one of the children held. 

«This is a fine straw, » said he, carelessly. 

((Fine straw, » cried Mrs* Bolingbroke: «No, 
that is very coarse; this_,» continued she, pulling 
one from another bundle, «this is fine straw, if 
you please. » 

«I think mine is the finest,)) said Mr. Boling- 
broke. 

«Then you must be blind ^ Mr. Bolingbroke, » 
cried the lady, eagerly comparing them. 

«Well, my dear, » said he, laughing, «we will 
not dispute about straws.» 

«No, indeed,)) said she, «but I observe, when- 
ever you know you are in the wrong, Mr. Bo- 
lingbroke, you say, we will not dispute, my dear: 
now pray look at these straws, Mrs. Grandby, you 
that have eyes, which is the finest ?» 

«1 will draw lots,» said Emma, taking one 
playfully from Mrs. Bolingbroke; «for it seems to 
me there is little or no difference between them. » 

((No difference? Oh my dear Emma ! » said Mrs. 
Bolingbroke. 

«My dear Griselda,» cried her husband, taking 
the other straw from her, and blowing it away, 
((indeed it is not worth disputing about, this is 
too childish, n 

((Childish,» repeated she, looking after the straw, 
as it floated down the wind; «I see nothing child- 
ish in being in the right; your raising your voice 
in that manner never convinces me. Jupiter is 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 83 

always in the wrong, you know, when he has 
recourse to his thunder. » 

« Thunder, my dear Griselda, about a straw! 
well, when women are determined to dispute, it 
is wonderful how ingenious they are in finding 
subjects. I give you joy my dear, of having attain- 
ed the perfection of the art : you can now lite- 
rally dispute about straws. » 

Miss Edgeworth. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF . 

I am now, dear sister, to take leave of you for 
a long while, and of Vienna for ever ; designing 
to-morrow r to begin my journey through Hungary, 
in spite of the excessive cold and deep snows, 
which are enough to damp a greater courage than 
I am mistress of. But my principle of passive 
obedience carries me through every thing. I have 
had my audience of leave of the empress. His 
imperial majesty was pleased to be present when 
I waited on the reigning empress ; and after a 
very obliging conversation, both their imperial 
majesties invited me to take Vienna in my road 
back; but I have no thoughts of enduring, ovlir 
again^ so great a fatigue. I delivered a letter from 
the duchess of Blankenberg. I staid but a few 
days at that court, though her highness pressed 
me very much to stay; and when I left her, en- 
gaged me to write to her. I wrote you a long- 
letter from thence, which I hope you have receiv- 
ed , though you do not mention it; but I believe 
I forgot to tell you one curiosity in all the Ger- 
man courts, which I cannot forbear taking notice 



84 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

of: all the princes keeping favourite dwarfs. The 
emperor and empress have two of these little mon- 
sters, as ugly as devils, especially the female; but 
they are all bedaubed with diamonds _, and stand 
at her majesty 's elbow in all public places. The 
duke of Wolfenbuttel has one , and the duchess 
of Blankenberg is not without her's^ but indeed 
the most proportionable I ever saw. 

I am at present confined to my chamber by a 
sore-throat, and am really glad of the excuse of 
seeing people that I love well enough to be very 
much mortified when I think I am going to part 
with them for ever. It is true the Austrians are 
not commonly the most polite people in the world, 
nor the most agreeable. But Vienna is inhabited 
by all nations, and I have formed to myself a 
little society of such as were perfectly to my own 
taste. And though the number was not very great, 
I could never pick up, in any other place, such 
a number of reasonable agreeable people. We were 
almost always together, and you know I have ever 
been of opinion, that a chosen conversation^ com- 
posed of a few that one esteems, is the greatest 
happiness of life. Here are some Spaniards of 
both sexes, that have all the vivacity and gene- 
rosity of sentiments anciently ascribed to their na- 
tion; and could I believe that the whole kingdom 
were like them, I should wish nothing more than 
to end my days there. The ladies of my acquain- 
tance have so much goodness for me , they cry 
whenever they see me, since I am determined to 
undertake this journey , and indeed I am not very 
easy when I reflect on what I am going to suffer. 
Almost every body I see frights me with some 
new difficulty. Prince Eugene has been so good 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 85 

as to say all the things he could to persuade me 
to stay till the Danube is thawed, that I may have 
the convenience of going by water, assuring me 
that the houses in Hungary are such as are no 
defence against the weather, and that I shall be 
obliged to travel three or four days between Buda 
and Essech , without finding any house at all, 
through desert plains covered with snow, where 
the cold is so violent that many have been killed 
by it. I own these terrors have made a deep 
impression on my mind, because I believe he tells 
me things truly as they are, and nobody can be 
better informed of them. 

Now I have named that great man, I am sure 
you expect I should say something particular of 
him , having the advantage of seeing him very 
often; but I am as unwilling to speak of him at 
Vienna, as I should be to talk of Hercules at the 
court of Omphale, if I had seen him there. I do 
not know what comfort other people find in con- 
sidering the weakness of great men (because, per- 
haps, it brings them nearer to their level), but 
it is always a mortification to me to observe that 
there is no perfection in humanity. The young 
prince of Portugal is ,the admiration of the whole 
court; he is handsome and polite, with a great 
vivacity. All the officers tell wonders of his gal- 
lantry the last campaign. He is lodged at court 
with all the honours due to his rank. — Adieu, 
dear sister; this is the last account you will have 
from me of Vienna. If I survive my journey, you 
shall hear from me again. I can say, with great 
truth, in the words of Moneses, I have long learned 
to hold myself as nothing; but when I think of 
the fatigue my poor infant must suffer, I have 



86 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

all a mother's fondness in my eyes, and all her 
tender passions in my heart. 

P. S. 1 have written a letter to my Lady 

that I believe she will not like; and upon cooler 
reflection, I think I had done better to have left 
it alone; but I was downright peevish at all her 
questions, and at her ridiculous imagination, that 
I have certainly seen abundance of wonders , 
which I keep to myself out of mere malice. She 
is very angry that I will not lie like other tra- 
vellers. I verily believe she expects I should tell 
her of the anthropophagi, men whose heads grow 
below their shoulders: pray say something to pa- 
cify her. 

Lady M. TV. Montague. 



SINCERITY. 



Truth and sincerity have all the advantages of 
appearance, and many more. If the show of any 
thing be good for any thing, I am sure the reality 
is better; for why does any man dissemble , or 
seem to be that which he pretends to? for to coun- 
terfeit and dissemble, is to put on the appea- 
rance of some real excellence. Now the best way 
for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to 
be what he would seem to be. Besides, it is of- 
ten as troublesome to support the pretence of a 
good quality, as to have it: and if a man have it 
not, it is most likely he will be discovered to want 
it, and then all his labour to seem to have it is 
lost. There is something unnatural in painting, 
which a skilful eye will easily discern from na- 
ture, beauty, and complexion. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 87 

It is hard to personate and act a part long; for 
if truth is not at the bottom, nature will always 
be endeavouring to return, and will betray herself 
at one time or other. Therefore, if any man think 
it convenient to seem good_, let him be so indeed, 
and then his goodness will appear to every one's 
satisfaction; for truth is convincing^ and carries 
its own light and evidence along with it, and will 
not only commend us to every one's conscience, 
but, which is more , to God , who searcheth our 
hearts; so that upon all accounts, sincerity is true 
wisdom. Particularly as to affairs of this world, 
integrity hath many advantages over all the arti- 
ficial modes of dissimulation and deceit. It is much 
the plainer and easier; much the safer and more 
secure way of dealing in the world : it hath less 
of trouble and difficulty; of entanglement and per- 
plexity, of danger and hazard in it; it is the short- 
est and nearest way to the end. The arts of 
deceit and cunning continually grow weaker, and 
less effectual and serviceable to those that practise 
them; whereas integrity gains strength by use, and 
the more and longer any man practiseth it, the 
greater service it does him, by confirming his re- 
putation, and encouraging those with whom he 
hath to do , to repose the greatest confidence in 
him^ which is an unspeakable advantage in busi- 
ness and the affairs of life. 

A dissembler must always be upon his guard, 
and watch himself carefully, that he do not con- 
tradict his own pretentions; for he acts an unna- 
tural part, and therefore must put a continual 
force and restraint upon himself; whereas, he that 
acts sincerely hath the easiest task in the world, 
because he follows nature ^ and so is put to no 



88 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

trouble and care about his words and actions; he 
needs not invent any pretence beforehand, nor 
make excuses afterwards, for any thing he hath 
said or done. 

But insincerity is very troublesome to manage; 
a hypocrite hath so many things to attend to, as 
make his life a very perplexed and intricate thing: 
a liar hath need of a good memory, lest he con- 
tradict at one time what he said at another; but 
truth is always consistent with itself, and needs 
nothing to help it out; it is always near at hand, 
and sits upon your lips; whereas a lie is trouble- 
some, and needs a great many more to make it 
good. 

Add to all this, that sincerity is the most com- 
pendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for 
the speedy despatch of business. It creates con- 
fidence in those we have to deal with, saves the 
labour of many enquiries, and brings things to an 
issue in a few words. It is like travelling in a 
plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man 
sooner to his journey's end, than by-ways in which 
men often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever 
convenience may be thought in falsehood and dis- 
simulation, it is soon over; but the inconvenience 
of it is perpetual, because it brings a man under 
everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is 
not believed when he speaks truth, nor trusted, 
when perhaps he means honestly. When a man 
hath once forfeited the reputation of his integrity, 
nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor 
falsehood. 

Indeed, if a man was only to deal in the world 
for a day, and should never have occasion to con- 
verse more with mankind, never more need their 
good opinion, or good word, it were then no great 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 89 

matter (as far as respects the affairs of this world) 
if he spent his reputation all at once, and ven- 
tured it at one throw ; but if he be to continue 
in the world , and would have the advantage of 
reputation whilst he is in it, let him make use of 
truth and sincerity in all his words and actions, 
for nothing but this will hold on to the end; all 
other arts will fail , but truth and integrity will 
carry a man through, and bear him out to the last. 

T Mot son. 



THE EPHEMERA. 

Cicero, in the first book of his «Tusculan ques- 
tions)), finely exposes the vain judgment we are 
apt to form of the duration of human life, com- 
pared to eternity. In illustrating this argument, 
he quotes a passage of natural history from Aris- 
totle, concerning a species of insects on tho banks 
of the river Hypanis, that never outlive the day 
wherein they are born. 

To pursue the thought of this elegant writer, 
let us suppose one of the most robust of these 
Hypanians (so famed in history) was in a manner 
coeval with time itself; that he began to exist at 
the break of day, and that, from the uncommon 
strength of his constitution ^ he has been able to 
show himself active in life through the number- 
less minutes of ten or twelve hours. Through so 
long a series of seconds he must have acquired 
vast wisdom in his way, from observation and ex- 
perience. He looks upon his fellow-creatures, who 
died about noon_, to be happily delivered from the 
many inconveniencies of old age; and can perhaps 
recount lo his great-grandson a surprising tradition 

12 



90 SELECT PIECF.S OF PROSE. 

of actions before any records of their nation were 
extant. The young swarm, who may be advanced 
one hour in life, approach his person with res- 
pect, and listen to his improving discourse. Every 
thing he says will seem wonderful to this short- 
lived generation. The compass of a day will be 
esteemed the whole duration of time; and the first 
dawn of light will, in their chronology, be styled 
the great aera of their creation. 

Let us now suppose this venerable insect , this 
Nestor of the Hypanis, should, a little before his 
death, and about sunset, send for all his descen- 
dants , his friends , and his acquaintance ; out of 
the desire he may have to impart his thoughts 
to them, and to admonish them with his depart- 
ing breath. They meet, perhaps, under the spa- 
cious shelter of a mushroom; and the dying sage 
addresses himself to them , after the following 
manner : 

« Friends and fellow-citizens! I perceive the 
longest life must have an end: the period of mine 
is now at hand : neither do I repine at my fate, 
since my great age is become a burden; and there 
is nothing new to me under the sun. The cala- 
mities and revolutions I have seen in my country; 
the manifold private misfortunes to which we are 
all liable, and the fatal diseases incident to our 
race, have abundantly taught me this lesson: that 
no happiness can be secure or lasting, which is 
placed in things that are out of our power. Great 
is the uncertainty of life! A whole brood of in- 
fants has perished in a moment by a keen blast: 
shoals of our straggling youth have been swept 
into the waves by an unexpected breeze : what 
wasteful deluges we have suffered from a sud- 
hoden shower. Our strongest holds are not proof 



SELECT PIECES OE PROSE. 91 

against a storm of hail: and even a dark cloud 
makes the stoutest heart to quail. 

I have lived in the first ages, and conversed 
with insects of a larger size, and stronger make, 
and (I must add) of greater virtue, than any can 
boast of in the present generation. I must con- 
jure you to give yet farther credit to my latest 
words, when I assure you that yonder sun, which 
now appears westward beyond the water, and 
seems not to be far distant from the earth, in my 
remembrance, stood in the middle of the sky, and 
shot his beams directly down upon us. The world 
was much more enlightened in those ages, and 
the air much warmer. Think it not dotage in 
me, if I affirm that that glorious being moves. I 
saw his first setting out, in the east*, and I began 
my race of life near that time , when he began 
his immense career. He has for several ages ad- 
vanced along the sky, with vast heat and unparal- 
leled brightness; but now, by his declension, and 
a sensible decay (more especially of late) in his 
vigour, I foresee, that all nature must fail in a 
little time; and that the creation will lie buried 
in darkness, in less than a century of minutes. 

«Alas, my friends, how did I once flatter myself 
with the hopes of abiding here for ever ! How mag- 
nificent are the cells which I hollowed out for 
myself! What confidence did I repose in the firm- 
ness and spring of my joints, and in the strength 
of my pinions. But I have lived long enough to 
nature and even to glory : neither will any of you, 
whom I leave behind , have equal satisfaction in 
life, in the dark, declining age, which I see is 
already begun. » 

Thus far my unknown correspondent pursues 
his fiction upon the thought of Cicero; neither 



92 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

will it seem extravagant to those who are acquaint- 
ed with the manner of instruction practised by 
the early teachers of mankind. Solomon sends the 
sluggard to the ant: and after his example, we 
may send the ambitious or the covetous man, who 
seems to overlook the shortness and uncertainty 
of life, to the little animals on the banks of the 
Hypaniso Let him consider their transitory state, 
and be wise. We, like the ephemeris, have but 
a day to live: the morning, the noon, and the 
evening of life, is the whole portion of our time: 
many perish in the very dawn; and the man (out 
of a million) who lingers on to the evening twilight, 
is not accounted happy. 

' Freethinker. 



AN ENUMERATION OF SUPERSTITIONS IN 
THE COUNTRY. 

You must know, Mr. Town, that I am just 
returned from a visit of a fortnight to an old 
aunt in the north; where I was mightily diverted 
with the traditional superstitions^ which are most 
religiously preserved in the family, as they have 
been delivered down (time out of mind) from their 
sagacious grandmothers. 

When I arrived, I found the mistress of the 
house very busily employed, with her two daugh- 
ters, in nailing a horse-shoe to the threshold of 
the door. This, they told me, was to guard against 
the spiteful designs of an old woman, who was 
a witch, and had threatened to do the family 
a mischief, because one of my young cousins laid 
two straws across, to see if the old hag could 
walk over them. The young lady assured me, that 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 93 

she had several times heard Goody Cripple mutter- 
ing to herself; and to be sure she was saying 
the Lord's prayer backwards. Besides, the old 
woman had very often asked them for a pin; 
but they took care never to give her any thing 
that was sharp, because she should not bewitch 
them. They afterwards told me many other par- 
ticulars of this kind, the same as are mentioned 
with infinite humour by the Spectator; and to 
confirm them, they assured me, that the eldest 
miss, when she was little, used to have fits, till 
the mother flung a knife at another old witch 
(whom the devil had carried off in a high wind), 
and fetched blood from her. 

When I was to go to bed, my aunt made a 
thousand apologies for not putting me in the best 
room in the house, which, she said, had never 
been lain in, since the death of an old washerwo- 
man, who walked every night, and haunted that 
room in particular. They fancied that the old 
woman had hid money somewhere, and could not 
rest till she had told somebody; and my cousin 
assured me, that she might have had it all to 
herself; for the spirit came one night to her bed- 
side, and wanted to tell her, but she had not cou- 
rage to speak to it. I learned also, that they had 
a footman once, who hanged himself for love; 
and he walked for a great while, till they got 
the parson to lay him in the Red Sea. 

I had not been here long, when an accident 
happened which very much alarmed the whole 
family. Towzer, one night, howled most horribly^ 
which was a sure sign that somebody belonging 
to them would die. The youngest miss declared, 
that she had heard the hen crow that morning, 
which was another fatal prognostic. They told 



94 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

me, that just before uncle died, Towzer howled 
so for several nights together, that they could 
not quiet him; and my aunt heard the death-watch 
tick as plainly as if there had been a clock in 
the room; the maid, too, who sate up with him, 
heard a bell toll at the top of the stairs, the very 
moment the breath went out of his body. During 
this discourse, I overheard one of my cousins 
whispering the other, that she was afraid their 
mamma would not live long, for she smelt an 
ugly smell, like a dead carcass. They had a dairy- 
maid who died the very week after a hearse had 
stopped at the door, on its way to church; and the 
eldest miss, when she was but thirteen, saw her 
own brother's ghost (who was gone to the West 
Indies) walking in the garden; and to be sure, 
nine months after, they had an account that he 
died on board the ship, the very same day, and 
hour of the day, that miss saw the apparition. 

I need not mention to you the common inci- 
dents, which were accounted by them no less 
prophetic. If a cinder popped from the fire, they 
were in haste to examine whether it was a purse 
or a coffin. They were aware of my coming long 
before I arrived, because they had seen a stranger 
on the grate. The youngest miss will let nobody 
use a poker but herself, because when she stirs 
the fire, it always burns bright, which is a sign 
she will have a brisk husband; and she is no 
less sure of a good one, because she generally 
has ill luck at cards. Nor is the candle less ora- 
cular than the fire: for the squire of the parish 
came one night to pay them a visit, when the 
tallow winding-sheet pointed towards him; and 
he broke his neck soon after in a fox-chace. My 
aunt one night observed with great pleasure a 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 95 

letter in the candle ; and the very next day one 
came from her son in London. We also knew 
when a spirit was in the room, by the candle 
burning blue. 

We had no occasion for an almanac 3 or the 
weather-dass, to let us know whether it would 
rain or shine. One evening I proposed to ride out 
with my cousins next day to see a gentleman's 
house in the neighbourhood; but my aunt assured 
us it would be wet. she knew very welh from 
the shooting of her corns. Besides, there was a 
great spicier crawling up the chimney, and the 
blackbird in the kitchen began to sing, which 
were both of them as certain forerunners of rain. 
But the most to be depended on, in these cases, 
is a tabbv cat. which usually lies basking on the 
parlour hearth. If the cat turned her tail to the 
fire, we were to have a hard frost: if the cat 
licked her tail, rain would certainly ensue. Thev 
wondered what stranger thev should see, because 
puss washed her face over her left ear. The old 
ladv complained of a cold, and her eldest daughter 
remarked it would go through the family, for 
she observed, that poor tab had sneezed several 
times. Poor tab, however, once flew at one of 
my cousins, for which she had like to have been 
destroyed, as the whole family began to think she 
was no other than a witch. 

It is impossible to tell yon the several tokens 
by which thev know whether good or ill luck 
will happen to them. Spilling the salt, or laving 
knives across, are every where accounted ill omens; 
but a pin with the head turned towards vou. or 
to be followed by a strange dog. I found were 
very lucky. I heard one of my cousins tell the 
cook-maid, that she boiled away all her. sweet- 



66 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

hearts, because she had let her dish-water boil 
over. The same young- lady one morning came 
down to breakfast with her cap the wrong side 
out, which her mother observing, charged her 
not to alter it all day, for fear she should turn 
luck. 

But above all, I could not help remarking the 
various prognostics which the old lady and her 
daughters used to collect from almost every part 
of the body. A white speck upon the nails made 
them as sure of a gift as if they had it already 
in their pockets. The eldest sister is to have one 
husband more than the youngest,, because she has 
one wrinkle more in her forehead; but the other 
will have the advantage of her in the number of 
children, as was plainly proved by snapping their 
finger-joints. It would take up too much room 
to set down every circumstance which I observed 
of this sort during my stay with them: I shall 
therefore conclude my letter with the several 
remarks on other parts of the body, as far as I 
could learn them from this prophetic family; for 
as I was a relation, you know, they had less 
reserve. 

If the head itches, it is a sign of rain. If the 
head aches, it is a profitable pain. If you have 
the tooth-ache, you don't love true. If your eye- 
brow itches, you will see a stranger. If your 
right eye itches , you will cry ; if your left, 
you will laugh: but left or right is good at 
night. If your nose itches , you will shake 
hands with , or kiss a fool , drink a glass of 
wine, run against a neighbour's door, or miss 
them all four. If your right ear or cheek 
burns, your left friends are talking of you; if 
your left, your right friends are talking of you. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 97 

If your right hand itches, you will pay away 
money ; if your left, you will receive. If your 
hack itches, butter will be cheap. If your side 
itches, some body is wishing for you. If your 
foot itches, you will tread upon strange ground. 
Lastly, if you shiver, somebody is walking over 
your grave. 

Connoisseur. 



TRUE HONOUR, 



The proper honour of man arises not from splen- 
did actions and abilities which excite high admi- 
ration. Courage and prowess, military renown, 
signal victories and conquests ^ may render the 
name of a man famous, without rendering his cha- 
racter truly honourable. To many brave men, to 
many heroes renowned in story, we look up with 
wonder. Their exploits are recorded. Their praises 
are sung. They stand as on an eminence above 
the rest of mankind. Their eminence, neverthe- 
less, may not be of that sort before which we 
bow with inward esteem and respect. Something 
more is wanted for that purpose than the con- 
quering arm, and the intrepid mind, The laurels 
of the warrior must at all times be dyed in blood, 
and bedewed with the tears of the widow and the 
orphan. But if they have been stained by rapine 
and inhumanity^ if sordid avarice has marked 
his character, or low and gross sensuality has de- 
graded his life, the great hero sinks into a little 

13 



98 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

man. What at a distance, or on a superficial view, 
we admire, becomes mean, perhaps odious, when 
we examine it more closely. It is like the colos- 
sal statue, whose immense size struck the specta- 
tor afar off with astonishment ; but when nearly 
viewed, appears disproportioned , unshapely, and 
rude. 

Observations of the same kind may be applied 
to all the reputations derived from civil accom- 
plishments; from the refined politics of the states- 
man, or the literary efforts of genius and erudition. 
They bestow , and with certain bounds ought to 
bestow, eminence and distinction on men. They 
discover talents which in themselves are shining; 
and which become highly valuable , when em- 
ployed in advancing the good of mankind. Hence 
they frequently give rise to fame. But a distinc- 
tion is to be made between fame and true honour. 
The former is a loud and noisy applause; the 
latter a more silent and internal homage. Fame 
floats on the breath of the multitude; honour rests 
on the judgment of the thinking. Fame may give 
praise, while it withholds esteem: true honour im- 
plies esteem mingled with respect. The one re- 
gards particular , distinguished talents ; the other 
looks up to the whole character. Hence the states- 
man, the orator, or the poet, may be famous, 
while yet the man himself is far from being ho- 
noured. We envy his abilities, we wish to rival 
them; but we would not choose to be classed with 
him who possesses them. 

From all this it follows, that, in order to dis- 
cern where man's true honour lies, we must look, 
not to any simple adventitious circumstance of for- 
tune , not to any sparkling quality , but to the 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 99 

whole of what forms a man ; what entitles him, 
as such, to rank high among the class of beings 
to which he belongs; in a word, we must look 
to the mind and the soul. A mind superior to 
fear, to selfish interest and corruption, a mind 
governed by the principles of uniform rectitude 
and integrity, the same in prosperity and adver- 
sity, which no bribe can seduce , no terror over- 
awe: neither by pleasure melted into effeminacy , 
nor by distress sunk into dejection: such is the 
mind which forms the distinction and eminence 
of men. — One, who in no situation of life is either 
ashamed or afraid of discharging his duty, and 
acting his proper part with firmness and constan- 
cy: true to the God he worships, and true to the 
faith in which he professes to believe; full of affec- 
tion to his brethren of mankind, faithful to his 
friends, generous to his enemies, warm with com- 
passion to the unfortunate, self-denying to little 
private interests and pleasures^ but zealous for pub- 
lic interest and happiness; magnanimous, without 
being proud; humble, without being mean; just, 
without being harsh; simple in his manners, but 
manly in his feelings ; on whose word you can 
entirely rely ; whose countenance never deceives 
you, whose professions of kindness are effusions 
of his heart; one, in fine, whom, independent of 
any views of advantage , you would choose for a 
superior, could trust in as a friend, and could love 
as a brother : — this is the man , whom in your 
heart, above all others, you do, you must honour. 

Blair. 



100 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

THE JUDGMENTS OF RHADAMANTHUS. 

I was yesterday comparing the industry of man 
with that of other creatures, in which I could not 
hut observe that, notwithstanding we are obliged 
by duty to keep ourselves in constant employ, 
after the same manner as inferior animals are 
prompted to it by instinct, we fall very short of 
them in this particular. We are here the more 
inexcusable , because there is a greater variety of 
business to which we may apply ourselves. Rea- 
son opens to us a large field of affairs, which other 
creatures are not capable of. Beasts of prey, and, 
1 believe 7 all other kinds , in their natural state 
of being, divide their time between action and 
rest; they are always at work or asleep; in short, 
their waking hours are entirely taken up in seek- 
ing after their food, or in consuming it. The 
human species only , to the great reproach of our 
nature y are filled with complaints , that the day 
hangs heavy on them; that they are at a loss how 
to pass away their time, with many of the like 
shameful murmurs, which we often find in the 
mouth of those who are styled reasonable beings. 
How monstrous are such expressions among crea- 
tures who have the labours of the mind, as well 
as those of the body^ to furnish them with pro- 
per employments ; who , besides the business of 
their callings and professions , can apply themselves 
to the duties of religion , to meditation, to 
the reading of useful books, to discourse; in a 
word , who may exercise themselves in the un- 
bounded pursuits of knowledge and virtue, and 
every hour of their lives make themselves wiser 
or better than they were before. 

After having been taken up some time in this, 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 101 

course of thought, I diverted myself with a book 7 
according to my usual custom, in order to unbend 
my mind, before I went to sleep. The book I 
made use of, on this occasion, was Lucian, where 
I amused my thoughts for about an hour, among 
the Dialogues of the Dead, which, in all proba- 
bility _, produced the following dream: 

I was conveyed, methought, into flie infernal 
regions, where I saw Rhadamanthus , one of the 
judges of the dead, seated on his tribunal. On his 
left hand stood the keeper of Erebus, and on his 
right the keeper of Elysium. I was told he sate 
upon women that day, there being several of the 
sex lately arrived, who had not as yet their man- 
sions assigned them. I was surprised to hear him 
ask every one of them the same question, namely, 
what they had been doing? Upon this question 
being proposed to the assembly , they stared one 
upon another, as not knowing what to answer: 
he then interrogated each of them separately. 
« Madam,» says he to the first of them, «you have 
been upon the earth about fifty years; what have 
you been doing there all that while ?» — « Doing, » 
says she, « really I don't know what I have been 
doing*, I desire I may have time given me to re- 
collect.)) After about' half an hour's pause, she 
told him , that she had been playing at crimp : 
upon which Rhadamanthus beckoned to the keep- 
er upon his left hand to take her into custody. 
«And you, madam, » says the judge, «who look 
with such a soft and languishing air; I think you 
set out for this place in your nine and twentieth 
year; what have you been doing all this while ?» 
— « I had a great deal of business on my hands, » 
says she, « being taken up the first twelve years 
of my life in dressing a jointed baby, and all the 



102 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE 

remaining part of it in reading plays and roman- 
ces. » «Very well,» says he, « you have employed 
your time ' to good purpose — away with her. » 
The next was a plain countrywoman: «Well, mis- 
tress,)) says Rhadamanthus , «and what have you 
heen doing ?» — «An't please your worship,)) says 
she, «I did not live quite forty years, and, in that 
time, brought my husband seven daughters, made 
him nine thousand cheeses, and left my eldest 
girl with him, to look after his house in my ab- 
sence; and who, I may venture to say, is as pretty 
a housewife as any in the country. » Rhadaman- 
thus smiled at the simplicity of the good woman, 
and ordered the keeper of Elysium to take her 
into his care. «iYnd you_, fair lady,» says he, 
«what have you been doing these five and thirty 
years?» — «I have been doing no hurt, I assure 
you^ sir,» says she. — «That is well,» says he, 
«but what good have you been doing ?» The lady 
was in great confusion at this question, and. not 
knowing what to answer, the two keepers leaped 
out to seize her at the same time; the one took 
her by the hand to convey her to Elysium, the 
other caught hold of her to carry her to Erebus: 
but Rhadamanthus, observing an ingenious modesty 
in her countenance and behaviour, bid them let 
her loose, and set her aside for reexamination, 
when he should be more at leisure. An old wo- 
man, of a proud and sour look, presented herself 
next at the bar, and being "asked what she had 
been doing — «Truly,)> says she, «I lived three- 
score and ten years in a very wicked world; and 
was so angry at the behaviour of a parcel of 
young flirts , that I passed almost all my last years 
in condemning the follies of the times; I was every 
day blaming the silly conduct of people about me, 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 103 

in order to deter those I conversed with from 
falling into the like errors and miscarriages. » — 
«Very well,» says Rhadamanthus, «but did you 
keep the same watchful eye over your own ac- 
tions?)) — «Why, truly ? » says she, «I was so taken 
up with publishing the faults of others, that I 
had no time to consider my own.» — « Madam, » 
says Rhadamanthus, «be pleased to tile off to the 
left , and make room for the venerable matron 
who stands behind you. » "Old gentlewoman,)) 
says he «I think you are fourscore? You have 
heard the question, what have you been doing so 
long in the world?)) — « Ah, sir, » says she, «I have 
been doing what I should not have done; but I 
had made a firm resolution to have changed my 
life, if I had not been snatched off by an untimely 
end.» — ((Madam,» says he, «you will please to 
follow your leader; » — and spying another of the 
same age, interrogated her in the same form, to 
which the matron replied : « I have been the wife 
of a husband who was as dear to me in his old age 
as be was in his youth. I have been a mother, 
and very happy in my children, whom I endea- 
voured to bring up in every thing that is good; 
my eldest son is blessed by the poor and beloved 
by every one that knows him. I lived within my 
income, and left my family much more wealthy 
than I found it. » Rhadamanthus, who knew the 
value of the old lady , smiled upon her in such 
a manner, that the 'keeper of Elysium, who knew 
his office , reached out his hand to her. He no 
sooner touched her , but her wrinkles vanished, 
her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with blush- 
es, and she appeared in full bloom and beauty. 
A young woman, observing that this officer, who 
conducted the happy to Elysium, was so great a 



104 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

beautifier, longed to be in bis hands; so that pres- 
sing through the crowd, she was the next who 
appeared at the bar and being asked what she had 
been doing the five and twenty years that she had 
passed in the world? «I have endeavoured,)) says 
she, «to make myself lovely, and to gain admirers; 
inventing white washes, mixing colours, cutting out 
patches, consulting my glass, suiting my complex- 
ion,)) — Rhadamanthus , without hearing her out, 
gave the sign to take her off. Upon the approach 
of the keeper of Erebus, her colour faded, her 
face puckered up with wrinkles, and her whole 
person was lost in deformity. 

1 was then surprised with the distant sound of a 
whole troop of females, that came forward, laugh- 
ing , singing , and dancing : I was very desirous 
to know the reception they would meet with, 
and withal was very apprehensive that Rhadaman- 
thus would spoil their mirth; but at their nearer 
approach , the noise grew so very great , that it 
waked me. 

Addison. 



RESIGNATION. 



The darts of adverse fortune are always levelled 
at our heads. Some reach us, some graze against 
us and fly to wound our neighbours. Let us, 
therefore, impose an equal temper on our minds, 
and pay without murmuring the tribute which we 
owe to humanity. The winter brings cold, and we 
must freeze. The summer returns with heat, and 
we must melt. The inclemency of the air disorders 
our health, and we must be sick. Here we are 
exposed to wild beasts, and there to men more 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 105 

savage than the beast; and if we escape the incon- 
veniencies and dangers of the air and of the earth, 
there are perils by water and perils by fire. This 
established course of things it is not in our power 
to change; but it is in our power to assume such 
a greatness of mind as becomes wise and virtuous 
men; as may enable us to encounter the accidents 
of life with fortitude, and to conform ourselves 
to the order of Nature, who governs her great 
kingdom, the world, by continual mutations. Let 
us submit to its order; let us be persuaded that 
whatever does happen ought to happen, and never 
be so foolish as to expostulate with Nature. The 
best resolution is to suffer what we cannot alter, 
and to pursue without repining the road which 
Providence, who directs every thing, has marked 
out to us; for it is not enough to follow, and he is 
but a bad soldier who sighs and marches on with 
reluctancy. We must receive the orders with 
spirit and cheerfulness, and not endeavour to 
slink out of the post which is assigned to us in 
the beautiful disposition of things, whereof even 
our sufferings make a necessary part. Resignation 
to the will of God is true magnanimity: but the 
sure mark of a pusillanimous and base spirit is to 
struggle againstyto censure the order of Providence, 
and instead of mending our own conduct, to set 
up for correcting that of our Maker. 

Bolingbroke. 



THE VULTURES LESSONS. 

An old vulture was sitting on a naked promi- 
nence, with her young about her, whom she was 

14 



106 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

instructing in the arts of a vulture's life, and 
preparing, by the last lecture, for their final dis- 
mission to the mountains and the skies. 

« My children, » said the old vulture, « you will 
the less want my instructions, because you have 
had my practice before your eyes; you have seen 
me snatch from the farm the household fowls; 
you have seen me seize the leveret in the bush, 
and the kid in the pasture; you know how to fix 
your talons, and how to balance your flight, when 
you are laden with your prey. But you remember 
the taste of more delicious food. I have often 
regaled you with the flesh of man.» «Tell us,» 
said the young vultures, « where man may be 
found, and how he may be known ; his flesh is 
surely the natural food of the vulture. Why have 
you never brought a man in your talons to the 
nest?» «He is too bulky, » said the mother: «when 
we find a man, we can only tear away his flesh, 
and leave his bones upon the ground.)) « Since 
man is so big, » said the young ones, «how do 
you kill him? You are afraid of the wolf, and of 
the bear; by what power are vultures superior to 
man ? Is man more defenceless than a sheep ? » 
« We have not the strength of man, » returned the 
mother, «and I am sometimes in doubt whether 
we have the subtility ; and the vultures would 
seldom feed upon his flesh, had not nature, that 
devoted him to our uses, infused into him a strange 
ferocity which I have never observed in any 
other being that feeds upon the earth. Two herds 
of men will often meet, and shake the earth with 
noise, and fill the air with fire. When you hear 
noise, and see fire, with flashes along the ground, 
hasten to the place with your swiftest wing, for 
men are surely destroying one another; you will 



SELECT PIECES OF PP.OSE. 



107 



then find the ground smoking with blood, and 
covered with carcasses, of which many are dis- 
membered and mangled, for the convenience of 
the vulture.» «But when men have killed their 
prey,» said the pupil, «why do they not eat it? 
When the wolf has killed a sheep, he suffers not 
the vulture to touch it, till he has satisfied himself. 
Is not man another kind of wolf?» «Man,» said 
the mother, «is the only beast that kills that 
which he does not devour; and this quality 
makes him so much a benefactor to our species.)* 
«If man kill our prey, and lay it in our way,» 
said the young one, «what need shall we have 
of labouring for ourselves?)) « Because man will 
sometimes,)) replied the mother, « remain for a 
long time quiet in his den. The old vultures will 
tell you when you are to watch his motions. 
When you see men in great numbers moving 
close together, like a flight of storks, you may 
conclude that they are hunting, and that you will 
soon revel in human blood. » «But still, » said the 
young one, <d would gladly know the reason of 
this mutual slaughter? I could never kill what I 
could not eat.» «My child,)) said the mother, 
«this is a question which I cannot answer, though 
I am reckoned the most subtle bird of the moun- 
tain. When I was young, I used frequently to 
visit the ayry of an old vulture, who dwelt upon 
the Carpathian rocks; he had made many obser- 
vations; he knew the places that afforded prey 
round his habitation, as far in every direction as 
the strongest wing can fly, between the rising 
and the setting of the summer sun; he had fed 
year after year on the entrails of man. His opi- 
nion was, that men had only the appearance of 
animal life, being really vegetables, with a power 



108 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

of motion, and as the boughs of an oak are 
dashed together hy the storm, that swine may 
fatten upon the fallen acorns, so men are, by some 
unaccountable power^ driven one against another, 
till they lose their motion, that vultures may be 
fed. Others think they have observed something 
of contrivance and policy amongst these mischie- 
vous beings; and those that hover more closely 
round them pretend, that there is, in every herd, 
one that gives directions to the rest, and seems to 
be more eminently delighted with a wide carnage. 
What it is that entitles him to such preeminence 
we know not; he is seldom the biggest, or the 
swiftest, but he shows, by his eagerness and dili- 
gence, that he is, more than any other, a friend 
to the vultures. » 

Dr. Johnson. 



CHARACTER OF ELIZABETH. 

There are few great personages in history who 
have been more exposed to the calumny of ene- 
mies, and the adulation of friends, than queen 
Elizabeth; and yet there is scarce any whose 
reputation has been more certainly determined 
by the unanimous consent of posterity. The unu- 
sual length of her administration, and the strong 
features of her character, were able to overcome 
all prejudices; and, obliging her detractors to 
abate much of their invectives, and her admirers 
somewhat of their panegyrics, have at last, in 
spite of political factions, and what is more 7 
of religious animosities, produced a uniform 
judgment with regard to her conduct. Her vigour r 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 109 

her constancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, 
and vigilance, are allowed to merit the highest 
praise, and appear not to have been surpassed by 
any person who ever filled a throne. A conduct 
less vigorous, less imperious, more sincere, more 
indulgent to her people, would have been requisite 
to form a perfect character. By the force of her 
mind, she controlled all her more active and 
stronger qualities, and prevented them from run- 
ning into excess. Her heroism was exempt from 
all temerity; her frugality from avarice; her 
friendship from partiality ; her active spirit from 
turbulence and a vain ambition. She guarded not 
herself with equal care, or equal success, from 
lesser inlirmities-the rivalship of beauty, the desire 
of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies 
of anger. 

Her singular talents for government were equally 
founded on her temper and on her capacity. Endow- 
ed with a great command of herself, she obtain- 
ed an uncontrolled ascendant over her people; 
and while she merited all their esteem by her 
real virtues, she also engaged their affection by 
her pretended ones, few' sovereigns of England 
succeeded to the throne in more difficult circum- 
stances, and none ever conducted the government 
with such uniform success and felicity. Though 
unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the 
true secret for managing religious factions, she 
preserved her people, by her superior providence r 
from those confusions in which theological contro- 
versy had involved all the neighbouring nations^ 
and though her enemies were the most powerful 
princes in Europe, the most active, the most 
enterprizing, the least scrupulous, she was able T 



110 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

by her vigour, to make deep impressions on their 
states, her own greatness meanwhile untouched 
and unimpaired. 

The wise ministers, and brave warriors, who 
flourished during her reign, share the praise of 
her success; hut instead of lessening the applause 
due to her, they make great addition to it. They 
owed all of them their advancement to her choice; 
they were supported by her constancy, and, with 
all their ability, they were never able to acquire 
any undue ascendant over her. In her family, in 
her court, in her kingdom, she remained equally 
mistress. The force of the tender passions was 
great over her, but the force of her mind was 
still superior, and the combat which her victory 
visibly cost her, serves only to display the firmness 
of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambitious 
sentiments. 

The fame of this princess, though it has sur- 
mounted the prejudices both of faction and bigot- 
ry, yet lies still exposed to another prejudice, 
which is more durable because more natural, and 
which, according to the different views in which 
we survey her, is capable either of exalting beyond 
measure, or diminishing the lustre of her charac- 
ter. This prejudice is founded on consideration of 
her sex. When we contemplate her as a woman, 
we are apt to be struck with the highest admira- 
tion of her great qualities and extensive capacity ; 
but we are apt also to require some more softness 
of disposition, some greater lenity of temper; some 
of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is 
distinguished. But the true method of estimating 
her merit is, to lay aside all these considerations, 
and consider her merely as a rational being, placed 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. Ill 

in authority, and entrusted with the government 
of mankind. We may find it difficult to reconcile 
our fancy to her as a wife, or mistress; but her 
qualities as a sovereign, though with some consi- 
derable exceptions, are the object of undisputed 
applause and approbation. 

Hume. 



ROBINSON CRUSOE'S FIRST RELIGIOUS 
INSPIRATION. 

With these thoughts, I resolved to remove my 
tent from the place where it now stood, being 
just under the hanging precipice of the hill , and 
which, if it should be shaken again, would certainly 
fall upon my tent. I spent the two next days, 
being the 19 th and 20 th of April , in contriving 
where and how to remove my habitation. The 
fear of being swallowed alive affected me so, that 
I never slept quiet; and yet the apprehension of 
lying abroad, without any fence, was almost equal 
to it: but still, when I looked about, and saw 
how every thing was put in order, how pleasantly 
I was concealed, and how safe from danger, it 
made me very loth to remove. In the mean time, 
it occurred to me that it would require a vast 
deal of time for me to do this; and that I must 
be contented to run the risk where I was, till I 
had formed a convenient camp^ and secured it so 
as to remove to it. With this conclusion I com- 
posed myself for a time; and resolved that I would 
go to work with all speed to build me a wall 
with piles, cables, etc. in a circle as before, 
and set up my tent in it, when it was finished; 



112 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

but that I would venture to stay where I was till 
it was ready, and fit to remove to. This was 
the 20 lh . 

April 22. The next morning I began to con- 
sider of means to put this measure into execution, 
but I was at a great loss about the tools. I had 
three large axes, and abundance of hatchets (for 
we carried the hatchets for traffic with the Indians); 
but with much chopping and cutting knotty hard 
wood, they were all full of notches, and dull: 
and though I had a grindstone, I could not turn 
it, and grind my tools too. This cost me as much 
thought as a statesman would have bestowed upon 
a grand point of politics, or a judge upon the 
life and death of a man. At length I contrived 
a wheel with a string, to turn it with my foot, 
that I might have both my hands at liberty. 

Note, I had never seen such a thing in England, 
or at least not to take notice how it was done, 
though since I have observed it is very common 
there; besides that, my grindstone was very large 
and heavy. This machine cost me a full week's 
work to bring it to perfection. 

April 28, 29. These two whole days I took up 
in grinding my tools, my machine for turning my 
grindstone performing very well. 

April 30. Having perceived that my bread had 
been low a great while, I now took a survey of 
it, and reduced myself to one biscuit-cake a day, 
which made my heart very heavy. 

May 1. In the morning , looking towards the 
sea-side, the tide being low, I saw something lie 
on the shore bigger than ordinary, and it looked 
like a cask. When I came to it, I found a small 
barrel , and two or three pieces of the wreck of 
the ship, which were driven on shore by the late 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 113 

hurricane; and looking towards the wreck itself, 
I thought it seemed to lie higher out of the water 
than it used to do. I examined the barrel that 
was driven on shore, and soon found it was a 
barrel of gunpowder; but it had taken water, and 
the powder was caked as hard as a stone : how- 
ever^ I rolled it farther on the shore for the pre- 
sent, and went on upon the sands, as near as I 
could to the wreck of the ship, to look for more, 

When I came down to the ship, I found it 
strangely removed. The forecastle, which lay 
buried in sand, was heaved up at least six feet: 
and the stern (which was broken to pieces^ and 
parted from the rest by the force of the sea, soon 
after I had left rummaging of her), was tossed, 
as it were, up, and cast on one side; and the sand 
was thrown so high on that side next the stern, 
that I could now walk quite up to her when the 
tide was out: whereas there was a great piece of 
water before, so that I could come within a quar- 
ter of a mile of the wreck without swimming. 
I was surprised with this at first, but soon con- 
cluded it must be done by the earthquake; and 
as by this violence the ship was more broken op- 
en than formerly., so many things came daily on 
shore, which the sea had loosened, and which the 
winds and water rolled by degrees to the land. 

This wholly diverted my thoughts from the de- 
sign of removing my habitation; and I busied my- 
self mightily, that day especially, in searching 
whether I could make any way into the ship: but 
I found nothing was to be expected of that kind, 
for all the inside of a the ship was choked up with 
sand. However, as I learned not to despair of 
anything, I resolved to pull every thing to pieces 

15 



114 SELECT PIECES OF PKOSE. 

that I could of the ship, concluding that every 
thing I could get from her would be of some use 
or other to me. 

May 3. I began with my saw, and cut a piece 
of a beam through , which I thought held some 
of the upper part or quarter-deck together; and 
when I had cut it through, I cleared away the 
sand as well as I could from the side which lay 
highest; but the tide coming in, I was obliged 
to give over for that time. 

May 4. I went fishing, but caught not one fish 
that I durst eat of, till I was weary of my sport; 
when, just going to leave off, I caught a young- 
dolphin. I had made me a long line of rope yarn, 
but I had no hooks; yet I frequently caught fish 
enough, as much as I cared to eat; all which I 
dried in the sun, and eat them dry. 

May 5. Worked on the wreck : cut another 
beam asunder, and brought three great fir-planks 
off from the decks; which I tied together, and 
made swim on shore when the tide of flood 
came on. 

May 6. Worked on the wreck; got several iron 
bolts out of her, and other pieces of iron work : 
worked very hard, and came home very much 
tired, and had thoughts of giving it over. 

May 7. Went to the wreck again, but not with 
an intent to work: but found the weight of the 
wreck had broken itself down, the beams being cut; 
and several pieces of the ship seemed to lie loose; 
and the inside of the hold lay so open that I could 
see into it; but almost full of water and sand. 

May 8. Went to the wreck, and carried an 
iron crow to wrench up the deck, which lay now 
quite clear of the water and sand. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 1 15 

I wrenched up two planks, and brought them 
on shore also with the tide. I left the iron crow 
in the wreck for next day. 

May 9. Went to the wreck, and with the crow 
made way into the body of the wreck, and felt 
several casks, and loosened them with the crow, 
but could not break them up. I felt also a roll 
of English lead, and could stir it; but it was too 
heavy to remove. 

May 10 to 14. Went every day to the wreck, 
and got a great many pieces of timber and boards 
or plank, and two or three hundred weight of 
iron. 

May 15. I carried two hatchets, to try if I could 
not cut a piece off the roll of lead, by placing 
the edge of one hatchet, and driving it with the 
other; but as it lay about a foot and a half in 
the water, I could not make any blow to drive 
the hatchet. 

May 16. It had blown hard in the night, and 
the wreck appeared more broken by the force of 
the water; but I staid so long in the woods, to 
get pigeons for foed , that the tide prevented my 
going to the wreck that day. 

May 17. I saw some pieces of the wreck blow 
on shore, at a great distance, two miles off me, 
but resolved to see what they were, and found it 
was a piece of the head, but too heavy for me 
to bring away. 

May 24. Every day, to this day, I worked on 
the wreck; and with hard labour I loosened some 
things so much with the crow, that the first blow- 
ing tide several casks floated out, and two of the 
seamen's chests: but the wind blowing from the 
shore, nothing came to land that day but pieces 



116 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

of timber, and a hogshead, which had some Bra- 
sil pork in it; but the salt water and the sand 
had spoiled it. I continued this work every day 
to the 15 th of June, except the time necessary to 
get food; which I always appointed, during this 
part of my employment, to be when the tide was 
up, that I might be ready when it was ebbed out: 
and by this time I had gotten timber, and plank, 
and iron-work enough to have built a good boat 
if I had known how : and I also got, at several 
times, and in several pieces, near one hundred 
weight of the sheet-lead. 

June 46. Going down to the sea-side, I found 
a large tortoise, or turtle. This was the first I 
had seen, which, it seems, was only my misfor- 
tune, not any defect of the place, or scarcity: for 
had I happened to be on the other side of the 
island, I might have hundreds of them every day, 
as I found afterwards, but perhaps had paid dear 
enough for them. 

June 47 . I spent in cooking the turtle. I found 
in her threescore eggs: and her flesh was to me, 
at that time, the most savoury and pleasant that 
ever I tasted in my life; having had no flesh but 
of goats and fowls, since I landed in this horrid 
place. 

June 48. Rained all that day, and staid within. 
I thought, at this time, the rain felt cold, and 
I was somewhat chilly, which I knew was not 
usual in that latitude. 

June 49. Very ill, and shivering, as if the wea- 
ther had been cold. 

June 20. No rest all night, violent pains in my 
head, and feverish. 

June 24. Very ill, frightened almost to death 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 117 

with the apprehensions of my sad condition, to be 
sick, and no help: prayed to God, for the first 
time since the storm of Hull; but scarce knew 
what I said, or why, my thoughts being all con- 
fused. 

June 22. A little better; but under dreadful 
apprehensions of sickness. 

June 23. Very bad again; cold and shivering, 
and then a violent head ache. 

June 24. Much better. 

June 25. An ague, very violent: the fit held 
me seven hours; cold fit and hot, with faint 
sweats after it. 

June 26. Better; and having no victuals to eat 
took my gun, but found myself very weak: how- 
ever , I killed a she-goat , and with much diffi- 
culty got it home, and broiled some of it, and ate. 
I would fain have stewed it, and made some broth, 
but had no pot. 

June 27. The ague so violent that I lay a bed 
all day, and neither eat nor drank. I was ready 
to perish for thirst; but so weak, I had not strength 
to stand up, or to get myself any water to drink. 
Prayed to God again , but was light-headed : and 
when I was not, I was so ignorant that I knew 
not what to say: only lay and cried, ccLord, look 
upon me ! Lord, pity me ! Lord, have mercy upon 
me ! » I suppose I did nothing else for two or three 
hours; till the fit wearing off, I fell asleep, and 
did not wake till far in the night. When I awoke 
I found myself much refreshed, but weak, ancE 
exceeding thirsty : however , as I had no water in 
my whole habitation , I was forced to lie till mor- 
ning, and went to sleep again. In this second 
sleep I had this terrible dream : I thought that i 



118 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

was sitting on the ground, on the outside of my 
wall, where I sat when the storm blew after the 
earthquake, and that I saw a man descend from 
a great black cloud, in a bright flame of fire, and 
light upon the ground : he was all over as bright 
as a flame, so that I could but just bear to look 
towards him: his countenance was most inexpres- 
sibly dreadful, impossible for words to describe: 
when he stepped on the ground with his feet, I 
thought the earth trembled, just as it had done 
before in the earthquake; and all the air looked, 
to my apprehension, as if it had been filled with 
flashes of fire. He had no sooner landed upon 
the earth, but he moved towards me, with a 
long spear or weapon in his hand , to kill me; 
and when he came to a rising ground, at some dis- 
tance, he spoke to me, or I heard a voice so ter- 
rible that it is impossible to express the terror 
of it : all that I can say I understood was this : 
« Seeing that these things have not brought thee to 
repentance, now thou shalt die;» at which words, 
I thought he lifted up the spear that was in his 
hand, to kill me. 

No one that shall ever read this account, will 
expect that I should be able to describe the hor- 
rors of my soul at this terrible vision; nor is it 
any more possible to describe the impression that 
remained on my mind when I awaked, and found 
it ^as but a dream. 

I had, alas! no divine knowledge: what I had 
received by the good instruction of my father was 
then worn out , by an uninterrupted series , for 
eight years, of seafaring wickedness, and a con- 
stant conversation with none but such as were, like 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 119 

myself, wicked and profane to the last degree. 
I do not remember that I had, in all that time, 
one thought that so much as tended either to look- 
ing upward towards God, or inward towards a 
reflection upon my own ways: but a certain stu- 
pidity of soul, without desire of good, or con- 
sciousness of evil, had entirely overwhelmed me ; 
and I was all that the most hardened, unthinking, 
wicked creature among our common sailors , can 
be supposed to be ; not having the least sense, 
either of the fear of God, in danger, or of thank- 
fulness to him, in deliverance. 

In the relating what is already past of my story, 
this will be the more easily believed, when I shall 
add, that throughout the variety of miseries that 
had to this day befallen me, I never had so much 
as one thought of its being the hand of God, or 
that it was a just punishment for my sin; either 
my rebellious behaviour against my father, or 
my present sins, which were great; or even as a 
punishment for the general course of my wicked 
life. When I was on the desperate expedition on 
the shores of Africa, I never had so much as one 
thought of what would become of me; or one 
wish to God to direct me whither I should go, or 
to keep me from the danger which apparently 
surrounded me , as well from voracious creatures 
as cruel savages : but I was quite thoughtless of a 
God or a Providence; acted like a brute, from the 
principles of nature, and by the dictates of com- 
mon sense only; and indeed hardly that. When 
I was delivered and taken up at sea by the Por- 
tuguese captain, well used, and dealt with justly 
and honourably, as well as charitably, I had not 
the least thankfulness in my thoughts. When, 



120 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

again, I was shipwrecked, ruined, and in danger 
of drowning , on this island , I was as far from 
remorse, or looking on it as a judgment: I only 
said that I was an unfortunate dog, and born to 
be always miserable. 

It is true, when I first got on shore here, and 
found all my ship's crew drowned, and myself 
spared, I was surprised with a kind of ecstacy, 
and some transports of soul, which, had the grace 
of God assisted, might have come up to true thank- 
fulness: but it ended where it began, in a mere 
common flight of joy \ or , as I may say , being 
glad I was alive, without the least reflection up- 
on the distinguishing goodness of the hand which 
had preserved me, and had singled me out to be 
preserved when all the rest were destroyed, or an 
enquiry why Providence had been thus merciful 
to me: just the same common sort of joy which 
seamen generally have, after they have got safe 
ashore from a shipwreck; which they drown all 
in the next bowl of punch, and forget almost as 
soon as it is over: and all the rest of my life was 
like it. Even when I was, afterwards, on due con- 
sideration, made sensible of my condition, — how 
I was cast on this dreadful place, but of the reach 
of human kind, out of all hope of relief, or pros- 
pect of redemption, — as soon as I saw but a pros- 
pect of living, and that I should not starve and 
perish for hunger, all the sense of my affliction 
wore off, and I began to be very easy, applied 
myself to the works proper for my preservation 
and supply, and was far enough from being afflic- 
ted at my condition, as a judgment from Heaven, 
or as the hand of God against me: these were 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 121 

thoughts which very seldom entered into my 
head. 

The growing up of the corn, as is hinted in 
my Journal, had, at first, some little influence up- 
on me, and began to affect me with seriousness, 
as long as I thought it had something miraculous 
in it, but as soon as that part of the thought was 
removed, all the impression which was raised from 
it, wore off also, as I have noted already. Even 
the earthquake, though nothing could be more 
terrible in its nature, or more immediately direct- 
ing to the invisible Power which alone directs 
such things, yet no sooner was the fright over, 
but the impression it had made went off also. I 
had no more sense of God, or his judgments, 
much less of the present affliction of my circum- 
stances being from his hand , than if I had been in 
the most prosperous condition of life. But now, 
when I began to be sick, and a leisure view of 
the miseries of death came to place itself before 
me; when my spirits began to sink under the 
burden of a strong distemper, and nature was ex- 
hausted with the violence of the fever ; conscience, 
that had slept so long , began to awake; and I 
reproached myself wHh my past life, in which I 
had so evidently by uncommon wickedness, pro- 
voked the justice of God to lay me under uncom- 
mon strokes, and to deal with me in so vindictive 
a manner. These reflections oppressed me for the 
second or third day of my distemper; and in the 
violence, as well of the fever, as of the dreadful 
reproaches of my conscience, extorted from me 
some words like praying to God: though I cannot 
say it was a prayer attended either with desires 
or with hopes, it was rather the voice of mere 

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122 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

fright and distress. My thoughts were confused; 
the convictions great upon my mind: and the hor- 
ror of dying in such a miserable condition, raised 
vapours in my head with the mere apprehension; 
and, in these hurries of my soul, I knew not what 
my tongue might express: but it was rather ex- 
clamation, such as, «Lord, what a miserable crea- 
ture am I! If I should be sick, I shall certainly 
die for want of help; and what will become of 
me?» Then the tears burst out of -my eyes, and 
I could say no more for a good while. In this 
interval, the good advice of my father came to 
my mind, and presently his prediction, which I 
mentioned at the beginning of this story, viz. that 
if I did take this foolish step, God would not bless 
me; and I would have leisure hereafter to re- 
flect upon having neglected his counsel, when there 
might be none to assist in my recovery. «Now,» 
said I aloud, «my father's words are come to 
pass; God's justice has overtaken me, and I have 
none to help or hear me. I rejected the voice of 
Providence, which had mercifully put me in a 
station of life wherein I might have been happy 
and easy; but I would neither see it myself, nor 
learn from my parents to know the blessing of 
it. I left them to mourn over my folly; and now 
I am left to mourn under the consequences of it. 
I refused their help and assistance , who would 
have pushed me in the world, and would have 
made every thing easy to me; and now I have 
difficulties to struggle with, too great for even na- 
ture itself to support; and no assistance, no com- 
fort, no advice.» 

Then I cried out, «Lord, be my help, for I am 



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123 



in great distress.)) This was the first prayer, if I 
may call it so, that I had made for many years. 

De Foe. 



THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 

Between the ages of Charlemagne and that of 
the Crusades , a revolution took place among the 
Spaniards, Normans, and French, which gradually 
extended itself to the rest of Europe. The ser- 
vice of the infantry was degraded to the plebeians; 
the cavalry formed the strength of the armies : 
and the honourable name of miles, or soldier, was 
confined solely to the gentlemen, who served on 
horseback, and who were invested with the cha- 
racter of knighthood. 

The dukes and counts, who had usurped the 
rights of sovereignty, divided the provinces among 
their faithful barons; the barons distributed among 
their vassals the fiefs, or benefices, of their juris- 
diction; and these military tenants (the peers of 
each other, and of their lord) composed the noble 
or equestrian order, which disdained to conceive 
the peasants, or burghers, as of the same species 
as themselves. The dignity of their birth was 
preserved by pure and equal alliances; their sons, 
alone, who could produce four quarters, or lines 
of ancestry, without spot or reproach, might legally 
pretend to the honour of knighthood; but a valiant 
plebeian was sometimes enriched and ennobled by 
the sword, and became the father of a new race. 
A single knight could impart, according to his 
judgment, the character which he received, and 
the warlike sovereigns of Europe derived more 



124 . SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

glory from this personal distinction, than from the 
lustre of their diadem. 

This ceremony was, in its origin, simple and 
profane; the candidate, after some previous trial, 
was invested with his sword and spear; and his 
cheeji or shoulder was touched with a slight blow, 
as an emblem of the last affront which it was law- 
ful for him to endure. But superstition mingled 
in every public and private action of life: in the 
holy wars it sanctified the profession of arms; 
and the order of chivalry was assimilated, in its 
rights and privileges, to the sacred order of priest- 
hood. As the champion of God and the ladies, 
the knight devoted himself to the truth; to main- 
tain right; to protect distress; to practise courtesy; 
to despise the allurements of ease and safety; and 
to vindicate in every perilous adventure , the ho- 
nour of knighthood. 

The benefits of this institution , to refine the 
temper of barbarians, and to infuse some princi- 
ples of faith, justice and humanity, were strongly 
felt, and have been often observed. The asperity 
of national prejudice was softened, and the com- 
munity of religion and arms spread a similar co- 
lour and generous emulation over the face of 
Christendom. Abroad, in enterprise and pilgri- 
mage — at home , in martial exercise — the war- 
riors of every country were perpetually associated; 
and impartial taste must prefer a gothic tourna- 
ment, to the Olympic games of classic antiquity. 
Instead of the naked spectacles, which corrupted 
the manners of the Greeks, and banished from 
the stadium the virgins and matrons, the pom- 
pous decoration of the lists was crowned with 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 125 

the plesence of chaste and high-horn beauty, from 
whose hands the conqueror received the prize of 
his dexterity and courage. 

Gibbon. 



THE HUMOROUS PICTURE. 

A young painter indulging a vein of pleasantry, 
sketched a kind of conversation piece, representing 
a bear, an owl, a monkey, and an ass; and to 
render it more striking, humorous, and moral, 
distinguished every figure by some emblem of 
human life. 

Bruin was exhibited in the garb and attitude of 
an old worthless drunken soldiery the owl, perch- 
ed upon the handle of a coffee-pot, with spec- 
tacles on its nose, seemed to contemplate a news- 
paper; and the ass, ornamented with a huge tye- 
wig (which, however, could not conceal his long 
earsj, sate for his picture to the monkey, who 
appeared with the implements of painting. This 
whimsical group afforded some mirth, and met 
with general approbation, until some mischievous 
wag hinted that the whole was a lampoon upon 
the friends of the performer: an insinuation which 
was ho sooner circulated, than those very people 
who applauded it before, began to be alarmed, 
and even to fancy themselves signified by the se- 
veral figures of the piece. 

Among others, a worthy personage in years, 
who had served in the army with reputation, 
being incensed at the supposed outrage, repair- 
ed to the lodgings of the painter, and find- 
ing him at home, «Hark ye, Mr. Monkey,)) said 
he, «I have a good mind to convince you, that 



126 SELECT TIECES OF PROSE. 

though the bear has lost his teeth, he retains his 
paws, and that he is not so drunk but he can 
perceive your impertinence. 'Sblood, sir, that tooth- 
less jaw is a downright scandalous libel. — But 
don't you think me so chop-fallen as not to be 
able to chew the cud of resentment. » Here he 
was interrupted by the arrival of a learned phy- 
sician, who advancing to the culprit with fury 
in his aspect, exclaimed, « Suppose the augmen- 
tation of the ass's ears should prove the diminu- 
tion of the baboon's, — nay, seek not to prevaricate, 
for, by the beard of Esculapius, there is not one 
hair in this perriwig that will not stand up in 
judgment to convict thee of personal abuse! — Do 
but observe, captain how this pitiful little fellow 
has copied the very curls — the colour, indeed, is 
different, but then the form and foretop are quite 
similar. » While he thus remonstrated in a strain 
of vociferation, a venerable senator entered, and 
waddling up to the delinquent, « Jackanapes ! » 
cried he, «I will now let thee see I can read 
something else than a newspaper, and that without 
the help of spectacles. — Here is your own note 
of hand, sirrah, for money, which if I had not 
advanced, you yourself would have resembled an 
owl, in not daring to show your face by day, 
you ungrateful, slanderous knave. » 

In vain the astonished painter declared that he 
had no intention to give offence, or to characte- 
rize particular persons. They affirmed the resem- 
blance was too palpable to be overlooked; they 
taxed him with insolence, malice, and ingratitude; 
and their clamours being overheard by the public, 
the captain was a bear, the doctor an ass, and 
the senator an owl, to his dying day. 



SELECT PIECES OE PROSE. 127 

Reader, I beseech thee, remember this example 
while thou art employed in the perusal of comic 
romance, or a moral tale, and seek not to appro- 
priate to thyself that which equally belongs to 
five hundred different people. If thou shouldst 
meet with a character that reflects thee in some 
ungracious particular, keep thy own counsel; con- 
sider that one feature makes not a face, and that 
though thou art, perhaps, distinguished by a bottle- 
nose, twenty of thy neighbours may be in the 
same predicament. 

Smollet. 



THE CAPTIVE. 



The bird in his cage pursued me into my room, 
I sate down close by the table, and leaning my 
head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself 
the miseries of confinement: I was in a right frame 
for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagina- 
tion. 

I was going to begin with the millions of my 
fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; 
but finding, however ' affecting the picture was, 
that I could not bring it near me, and that the 
multitude of sad groups in it did but distract 
me — 

I took a single captive, and having first shut 
him up in his dungeon, I then looked through 
the twilight of his grated door to take his pic- 
ture. 

I beheld his body half wasted away with long 
expectation and confinement, and felt what kind 
of sickness of the heart it was which arises from 



128 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him 
pale and feverish; in thirty years the western 
Breeze had not once fanned his blood; he had 
seen no sun, no moon, in all that time; nor had 
the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through 
his lattice; — his children — 

But here my heart began to bleed, and I was 
forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little 
straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, 
which was alternately his chair and bed: a little 
calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, 
notched all over with the dismal days and nights 
he had passed there; he had one of these little 
sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail was 
etching another day of misery to add to the 
heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he 
lifted up a hopeless eye toward the door, then 
cast it down, shook his head, and then went on 
with his work of affliction. 1 heard his chains 
upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his 
stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh; I saw 
the iron enter his soul ; — I burst into tears ; — I 
could not sustain the picture of confinement 
which my fancy had drawn. 

Sterne. 



ON THE 1NHABIRANTS OF LILLIPUT. 

Although I intend to leave the description of 
this empire to a particular treatise, yet in the 
mean time, I am content to gratify the curious 
reader with some general ideas. As the common 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE, 129 

size of the natives is somewhat under six inches 
high, so there is an exact proportion in all other 
animals, as well as plants and trees: for instance, 
the tallest horses and oxen are between four and 
five inches in height^ the sheep an inch and a half, 
more or less; their geese about the bigness of a 
sparrow, and so the several gradations downwards, 
till you come to the smallest, which, to my sight 
were almost invisible; but nature has adapted the 
eyes of the Lilliputians to all objects proper for 
their view: they see with great exactness, but at 
no great distance. And, to show the sharpness 
of their sight towards objects that are near, I 
have been much pleased with observing a cook 
pulling a lark, which was not so large as a fly; 
and a young girl threading an invisible needle with 
invisible silk. Their tallest trees are about seven 
feet high : I mean some of those in the great royal 
park, the tops whereof I could but just reach 
with my fist clenched. The other vegetables are 
in the same proportion; but this I leave to the 
reader's imagination. 

I shall say little at present of their learning, 
which, for many ages, has flourished in all its 
branches among themj: but their manner of wri- 
ting is very peculiar, being neither from the left 
to the right like the Europeans; nor from the 
right to the left, like the Arabians; nor from up 
to down, like the Chinese ; but aslant, from one cor- 
ner of the paper to the other, like ladies in England. 

They bury their dead with their heads directly 
downward, because they hold an opinion , that in 
eleven thousand moons they are all to rise again; 
in which period the earth (which they conceive 
to be flat;) will turn upside down, and by this 

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130 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

means they shall at their resurrection , be found 
ready standing on their feet. The learned among 
them confess the absurdity of this doctrine; but 
the practice still continues in compliance to the 
vulgar. 

There are some laws and customs in this em- 
pire very peculiar, and if they were not so di- 
rectly contrary to those of my own dear coun- 
try, I should be tempted to say a little in their 
justification. It is only to be wished they were 
as well executed. The first I shall mention relates 
to informers. All crimes against the state are 
punished here with the greatest severity; but, if 
the person accused makes his innocence plainly 
to appear upon his trial, the accuser is immediate- 
ly put to an ignominious death; and out of his 
goods or lands the innocent person is quadruply 
recompensed for the loss of his time, for the dan- 
ger he underwent, for the hardship of his impri- 
sonment, and for all the charges he has been at 
in making his defence; or if that fund be defici- 
ent, it is largely supplied by the crown. The 
emperor also confers on him some public mark 
of his favour, and proclamation is made of his 
innocence through the whole city. 

They look upon fraud as a greater crime than 
theft, and therefore seldom fail to punish it with 
death ; . for they allege _, that care and vigilance, 
with a very common understanding, may preserve 
a mans goods from thieves, but honesty has no 
defence against superior cunning; and since it is 
necessary that there should be a perpetual inter- 
course of buying and selling, and dealing upon 
credit; where fraud is permitted and connived at, 
x>r has no law to punish it, the honest dealer is 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 131 

always undone, and the knave gets the advantage. 
I remember, when I was once interceding with 
the king for a criminal who had wronged his 
master of a great sum of money, which he had 
received by order, and run away with; and hap- 
pening to tell his majesty, by way of extenuation, 
that it was only a breach of trust , the emperor 
thought it monstrous in me to offer as a defence 
the greatest aggravation of the crime ; and truly 
I had little to say in return, farther than the com- 
mon answer , that different nations had different 
customs: for I confess, I was heartily ashamed. 

Although we usually call reward and punish- 
ment the two hinges upon which all government 
turns , yet I could never observe this maxim to 
be put in practice by any nation _, except that of 
Lilliput. Whoever can there bring sufficient proof, 
that he has strictly observed the laws of his coun- 
try for seventy three moons, has a claim to cer- 
tain privileges, according to his quality or condi- 
tion of life, with a proportionable sum of money 
out of a fund appropriated for that use: he like- 
wise acquires the title of snilpall, or legal, which 
is added to his name , but does not descend to 
his posterity. And these people thought it a pro- 
digious defect of policy among us, when I told 
them that our laws were enforced only by penal- 
ties, without any mention of reward. It is upon 
this account that the image of Justice , in their 
courts of judicature, is formed with six eyes, two 
before j as many behind, and on each side one, 
to signify circumspection; with a bag of gold open 
in her right hand, and a sword sheathed in her left, 
to show she is more disposed to reward than ta 
punish. 



132 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

In choosing persons for all employments, they 
have more regard to good morals than to great 
abilities; for, since government is necessary to man- 
kind, they believe that the common size of hu- 
man understanding is fitted to some station or 
other; and that Providence never intended to make 
the management of public affairs a mystery to be 
comprehended only by a few persons of sublime 
genius,, of which there seldom are three born in 
an age: but they suppose truth, justice, tempe- 
rance , and the like , to be in every man 7 s power; 
the practice of which virtues, assisted by ex- 
perience and a good intention, would qualify any 
man for the service of his country, except where 
a course of study is required. But they thought 
the want of moral virtues was so far from being 
supplied by superior endowments of the mind, 
that employments could never be put into such 
dangerous hands as those of persons so qualified; 
and at least, that the mistakes committed by igno- 
rance in a virtuous disposition, would never be 
of such fatal consequence to the public weal, as 
the practice of a man, whose inclinations led him 
to be corrupt , and who had great abilities to 
manage, to multiply and defend his corruptions. 

In like manner, the disbelief of a Divine Pro- 
vidence renders a man incapable of holding any 
public station ; for, since kings avow themselves 
to be the deputies of Providence, the Lilliputians 
think nothing can be more absurd than for a 
prince to employ such men as disown the autho- 
rity under which he acts. 

In relating these, and the following laws, I 
would only be understood to mean the original 
institutions, and not the most scandalous corrup- 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 133 

tfons , into which these people are fallen by the 
degenerate nature of man. For, as to that infa- 
mous practice of acquiring great employments by 
dancing on the ropes, or badges of favour and 
distinction by leaping over sticks and creeping un- 
der them, the reader is to observe, that they were 
first introduced by the grandfather of the emperor 
now reigning, and grew to the present height by 
the gradual increase of party and faction. 

Ingratitude is among them a capital crime, as 
we read it to have been in some other coun- 
tries: for they reason thus; that whoever makes 
ill returns to his benefactor, must needs be a com- 
mon enemy to the rest of mankind , from whom 
he has received no obligation, and therefore such 
a man is not fit to live. 

The nurseries for males of noble or eminent 
birth, are provided with grave and learned pro- 
fessors, and their several deputies. 

The clothes and food of the children are plain 
and simple. They are bred up in the principles of 
honour, justice, courage, modesty, clemency, reli- 
gion, and love of their country; they are always em- 
ployed in some business, except in the times of eating 
and sleeping, which are very short, and two hours 
for diversions, consisting of bodily exercises. They 
are dressed by men till four years of age, and 
then are obliged to dress themselves, although 
their quality be ever so great; and the women 
attendants, who are aged proportionably to ours 
at fifty, perform only the most menial offices. 
They are never suffered to converse with servants r 
but go together in smaller or greater numbers 
to take their diversions, and always in the pre- 



134 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

sence of a professor, or of his deputies; whereby 
they avoid those early and bad impressions of folly 
and vice, to which our children are subject. Their 
parents are suffered to see them only twice a 
year; the visit is to last but an hour; they are 
allowed to kiss the child at meeting and parting; 
but a professor , who always stands by, on those 
occasions, will not suffer them to whisper, or use 
any fondling expressions, or bring any presents 
of toys, sweetmeats, and the like. 

The pension from each family for the educa- 
tion and entertainment of a child, upon failure 
of due payment, is levied by the emperor's officers. 

The nurseries for children of ordinary gentle- 
men, merchants, traders, and handicrafts, are ma- 
naged proportionably after the same manner; only 
those designed for trades are put out apprentices 
at eleven years old : whereas those of persons of 
quality continue in their exercises till fifteen, 
which answers to twenty one with us, but the 
confinement is gradually lessened for the last three 
years. 

In the female nurseries, the young girls of qua- 
lity are educated much like the males, only they 
are dressed by orderly servants of their own sex; 
but always in the presence of a professor or de- 
puty, till they come to dress themselves, which 
is at five years old. And if it be found that these 
nurses ever presume to entertain the girls with 
frightful or foolish stories, or the common fol- 
lies practised by chambermaids among us , they 
are publicly whipped thrice about the city, im- 
prisoned for a year, and banished for life to the 
most desolate part of the country. Thus the young 
ladies there are as much ashamed of being cow- 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 135 

ards and fools, as the men, and despise all per- 
sonal ornaments, beyond decency and cleanliness: 
neither did I perceive any difference in their edu- 
cation made by their difference of sex, only that 
the exercises of the females were not altogether 
so robust; and that some rules were given them 
relating to domestic life, and a smaller compass 
of learning was enjoined them: for their maxim 
is, that among people of quality , a wife should 
be always a reasonable and agreeable companion, 
hecause she cannot always be young. When the 
girls are twelve years old, which among them is 
the marrigeable age, their parents or guardians 
take them home, with great expressions of grati- 
tude to the professors, and seldom without tears 
of the young lady and her companions. 

In the nurseries of females of the meaner sort, 
the children are instructed in all kinds of works 
proper for their sex, and their several degrees: 
those intended for apprentices are dismissed at 
seven years old, the rest are kept to eleven. 

The meaner families who have children at these 
nurseries, are obliged, besides their annual pen- 
sion, which is as low as possible, to return to the 
steward of the nursery a small monthly share of 
their gettings, to be a portion for the child; and 
therefore all parents are limited in their expences 
by the law. As to persons of quality, they give 
security to appropriate a certain sum for each child; 
suitable to their condition; and these funds are 
always managed with good husbandry, and the 
most exact justice. 

The cottagers and labourers keep their children 
at home, their business being only to till and cul- 
tivate the earth, and therefore their education 



136 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

is of little consequence to the public: but the 
old and diseased among them are supported by 
hospitals; for begging, as a trade, is unknown in this 
empire. 

J. Swift. 



ENDEAVOUR TO PLEASE, AND YOU CAN 
SCARCELY FAIL OF SUCCESS. 

The means of pleasing vary according to time, 
place, and person ; but the general rule is the trite 
one. Endeavour to please, and you will infallibly 
please to a certain degree ; constantly show a desire 
to please, and you will engage people's self-love in 
your interest , a most powerful advocate. This, as in- 
deed almost every thing else, depends on attention. 

Be therefore attentive to the most trifling thing 
that passes where you are; have, as the vulgar 
phrase is, your eyes and your ears always about 
you. It is a very foolish, though a very com- 
mon saying, «I really did not mind it,» or, I 
"was thinking of quite another thing at that time." 
The proper answer to such ingenious excuses, 
and which admits of no reply, is, why did you 
not mind it? you was present when it was said 
or done. Oh ! but you may say, you was think- 
ing of quite another thing: if so, why was you 
not in quite another place proper for that impor- 
tant other thing, which you say you was think- 
ing of? But you will say, perhaps, that the 
company was so silly, that it did not deserve your 
attention; that, I am sure^ is the saying of a silly 
man; for a man of sense knows that there is no 
company so silly, that some use may not be made 
of it by attention. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 137 

Let your address, when you first come into com- 
pany, be modest, but without the least bashful- 
ness or sheepishness, steady without impudence , 
and unembarrassed j as if you were in your own 
room. This is a difficult point to hit, and there- 
fore deserves great attention ; nothing but a long 
usage in the world, and in the best company, can 
possibly give it. 

A young man without knowledge of the world, 
when he first goes into a fashionable company, 
where most are his superiors, is commonly either 
annihilated by bashfulness, or, if he rouses and 
lashes himself up to what he only thinks a modest 
assurance^ he runs into impudence and absurdity, 
and consequently offends instead of pleasing. Have 
always, as much as you can, that gentleness of 
manners, which never fails to make favourable 
impressions, provided it be equally free from an 
insipid smile, or a pert smirk. 

Carefully avoid an argumentative and disputative 
turn, which too many people have, and some even 
value themselves upon, in company; and when 
your opinion differs from others, maintain it only 
with modesty, calmness, and gentleness ; but never 
be eager, loud, or clalmorous; and when you find 
your antagonist beginning to grow warm, put an 
end to the dispute by some genteel stroke of hu- 
mour. Eor, take it for granted,, if the two best 
friends in the world dispute with eagerness upon 
the most trifling subject imaginable, they will, for 
the time, find a mbmentary alienation from each 
other. Disputes upon any subject are a sort of trial 
of the understanding, and must end in the mortifi- 
cation of one or other of the disputants. On the 
other hand, I am far from meaning that you should 

18 



138 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

give a universal assent to all that you hear said 
in company; such an assent would be mean, and 
in some cases criminal; but blame with indul- 
gence, and correct with gentleness. 

Always look people in the face when you speak 
to them ; the not doing it is thought to imply 
conscious guilt; besides that, you lose the advan- 
tage of observing by their countenances, what 
impression your discourse makes upon them. In 
order to know people's real sentiments, I trust 
much more to my eyes than to my ears, for they 
can say whatever they have a mind I should 
hear; but they can seldom help looking what they 
have no intention that I should know. 

If you have not command enough over your- 
self to conquer your humours, as I am sure every 
rational creature may have, never go into company 
whilst the fit of ill-humour is upon you. Instead 
of company's diverting you in those moments, 
you will displease, and probably shock them ; 
and you will part worse friends than you met; 
but whenever you find in yourself a disposition 
to sullenness, contradiction, or testiness, it will 
be in vain to seek for a cure abroad. Stay at home ; 
let your humour ferment and work itself off. 
Cheerfulness and good humour are of all qualifi- 
cations the most amiable in company ; for ,, though 
they do not necessarily imply good nature and 
good breeding, they represent them, at least, very 
well, and that is all that is required in mixed 
company. 

I have, indeed, known some very ill-natured 
people, who were good-humoured in company ; 
but I never knew any one generally ill-humoured in 
company who was not essentially ill-natured. 
When there is no malevolence in the heart 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE, 139 

there is a cheerfulness and ease in the countenance 
and manners. By good humour and cheerfulness, 
I am far from meaning noisy mirth and loud peals 
of laughter, which are the distinguishing cha- 
racteristics of the vulgar and of the ill-bred, whose 
mirth is a kind of storm: observe it, the vulgar 
often laugh, but never smile ; whereas, well-bred 
people often smile, but seldom laugh. A witty 
thing never excites laughter; it pleases only the 
mind, and never distorts the countenance : a gla- 
ring absurdity, a blunder, a silly accident, and 
those things that are generally called comical, may 
excite a laugh, though never a loud nor a long 
one, among well-bred people. 

Sudden passion is called short-lived madness ; 
it is a madness indeed ; but the fits of it return so 
often in choleric people^ that it may be called a 
continual madness. Should you happen to be of 
this unfortunate disposition, make it your con- 
stant study to subdue, or at least to check it. When 
you find your choler rising, resolve neither to 
speak to, nor answer the person who excites it; 
but stay till you find it subsiding; and then speak 
deliberately. Endeavour to be cool and steady 
upon all occasions ; the advantages of such a stea- 
dy calmness are innumerable, and would be too 
tedious to relate. It may be acquired by care and 
reflection; if it could not, that reason which 
distinguishes men from brutes, would be given us 
to very little purpose ; as a proof of this, I never 
saw, and scarcely ever heard of, a quaker in a 
passion. In truth, there is in that sect a deco- 
rum and decency, and an amiable simplicity, that 
I know in no other. 

Lord Chesterfield. 



140 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

SPECULATION IN AMERICA. 

Buffalo is one of the wonders of America. It 
is hardly to be credited that such a beautiful city 
could have risen up in the wilderness in so short 
a period. In the year 1814 it was burned down, 
being then only a village; only one house was 
left standing, and now it is a city with twenty 
five thousand inhabitants. The Americans are very 
judicious in planning their new towns; the streets 
are laid out so wide that there will never be oc- 
casion to pull down and improve, as we do in 
England. The city of Buffalo is remarkably well 
built; all the houses in the principal streets are 
lofty and substantial, and are either of brick or 
granite. The main street is wider, and the sto- 
ries handsomer, than the majority of those in New- 
York. It has five or six very fine churches , a 
handsome theatre, town-hall,, and market, and 
three or four hotels, one of which is superior to 
most others in America, and to these we must 
add a fine stone pier, with a lighthouse, and a 
harbour full of shipping and magnificent steam- 
boats. It is almost incomprehensible^ that all this 
should have been accomplished since 1814. And 
what has occasioned this springing up of a city 
in so short a time as to remind you of Aladdin's 
magic palace? The Erie Canal, which here joins 
the Hudson river with the Lake, passing through 
the centre of the most populous and fertile states. 

I must now revert to the singular causes by 
which, independently of others, such as locality, etc. 
Buffalo was so rapidly brought to a state of per- 
fection — not like many other towns which, com- 
mencing with wooden houses, gradually supersede 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 141 

them by brick and stone. The person who was 
the cause of this unusual rise was a M r Rathbun, 
who now lies incarcerated in a jail of his own 
building. It was he who built all the hotels, church- 
es, and other public edifices; in fact, every 
structure worthy of observation in the whole town 
was projected, contracted for, and executed by 
M r Rathbun. His history is singular. Of quiet, 
unassuming manners, Quaker in his dress, mode- 
rate in all his expences (except in charity, where- 
in, assisted by an amiable wife, he was very li- 
beral) , he concealed under this apparent simpli- 
city and goodness, a mind capable of the vastest 
conceptions, united with the greatest powers of 
execution. He undertook contracts, and embarked 
in building speculations, to an amount almost in- 
credible. Rathbun undertook every thing, and 
every thing undertaken by Rathbun was well done. 
Not only at Buffalo^ but at Niagara and other pla- 
ces, he was engaged in vast building, when the 
great crash occurred; and Rathbun, with others, 
was unable to meet his liabilities. Then , for the 
first time, it was discovered that, for more than 
five years, he had been conniving at a system of 
forgery, to the amount of two millions of dollars. 
The forgery consisted in putting to his bills the 
names of responsible parties as endorsers, that they 
might be more current. It does not appear that 
he ever intended to defraud, for he took up all 
his notes as fast as they became due; and it was 
this extreme regularity on his part which prevent- 
ed the discovery of his fraud , for so unusually 
long a period. It is surmised, that had not the 
general failure taken place, he would have event- 
ually withdrawn all these forged bills from the 



\4SL SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

market, and have paid all his creditors_, reserving 
for himself a handsome fortune. It is a singular 
event in the annals of forgery, that this should 
have been carried on undiscovered for so unpre- 
cedented a time. M r Rathbun is to be tried as an 
accessary, as it was his brother who forged the 
names. As soon as it was discovered, the latter 
made his escape, and he is said to have died mis- 
erably in a hovel on the confines of Texas. 

Marry at. 



OMAR. 

Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy- 
five years in honour and prosperity. The favour 
of three successive califs had filled his house 
with gold and silver, and whenever he appeared, 
the benedictions of the people proclaimed his pas- 
sage. 

Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. 
The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel; 
the fragrant flower is passing away in its own 
odour. The vigour of Omar began to fail ; the 
curls of beauty fell from his head; strength de- 
parted from his hands, and agility from his feet. 
He gave back to the calif the keys of trust, and 
the seals of secrecy, and sought no other pleasure 
for the remains of life, than the converse of the 
wise, and the gratitude of the good. 

The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. 
His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch 
the dictates of experience, and oilicious to pay the 
tribute of admiration. Caled the son of the vice- 
roy of Egypt, entered every day early, and reti- 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 143 

red late. He was beautiful and eloquent. Omar 
admired his wit, and loved his docility. 

«Tell me,» said Caled, «thou to whose voice 
nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known 
to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may 
resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which 
you have gained power, and preserved it, are to 
vou no longer necessary or useful : impart to me 
the secret of your conduct, and teach me the 
plan upon which your wisdom has built your for- 
tune. » 

« Young man,» said Omar, «it is of little use to 
form plans of life. When I took my first survey 
of the world, in my twentieth year, having con- 
sidered the various conditions of mankind, in the 
hour of solitude, I said thus to myself, leaning 
against a cedar which spread its branches over my 
head: Seventy years are allowed to man; I have 
yet fifty remaining : ten years I will allot to the 
attainment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in 
foreign countries. I shall be learned, and there- 
fore shall be honoured ; every city will shout at 
my arrival, and every student will solicit my friend- 
ship. Twenty years thus passed will store 
my mind with images , which I shall be busy 
through the rest of my life in combining and 
comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accu- 
mulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new 
pleasures for every moment, and shall never more 
be weary of myself. I will, however, not deviate 
too far from the beaten track of life, but will try 
what can be found in female delicacy. I will 
marry a wife beautiful as the Houries, and wise 
as Zobeide; with her I will live twenty years in 
the suburbs of Bagdad , in every pleasure that 



144 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent. I 
will then retire to a rural dwelling, pass my days 
in obscurity and contemplation , and lie silently 
down on the bed of death. Through my life it 
shall be my settled resolution, that I will never 
depend upon the smile of princes; that I will 
never stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I 
will never pant for public honours, nor disturb 
my quiet with affairs of state. Such was my 
scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly on 
my memory. 

The first part of my ensuing time was to be 
spent in search of knowledge; and I know not 
how I was diverted from my design. I had no 
visible impediments without, nor any ungovernable 
passions within. I regarded knowledge as the 
highest honour, and most engaging pleasure; yet 
day stole upon day, and month glided after month, 
till I found that seven years of the first ten had 
vanished, and left nothing behind them. I now 
postponed my purpose of travelling; for why should 
I go abroad while so much remained to be learn- 
ed at home? I immured myself for four years, 
and studied the laws of the empire. The fame 
of my skill reached the judges; I was found able 
to speak upon doubtful questions, and was com- 
manded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I 
was heard with attention; I was consulted with 
confidence, and the love of praise fastened on my 
heart. 

I still wished to see distant countries, listened 
with rapture to the relations of travellers, and 
resolved, sometimes, to ask my dismission, that I 
might feast my eyes with novelty ; but my pre- 
sence was always necessary , and the stream of 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE* 145 

business hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid 
lest I should be charged with ingratitude; but, I 
still proposed to travel, and therefore would not 
confine myself by marriage. 

In my fiftieth year, I began to suspect that the 
time of travelling was past, and thought it best 
to lay hold of the felicity yet in my power, and 
indulge myself in domestic pleasures. But at fifty 
no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the 
Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I enquired and re- 
jected , consulted and deliberated , till the sixty- 
second year made me ashamed of gazing upon 
girls. I had now nothing left but retirement, and 
for retirement I never found a time,, till disease 
forced me from public employment. 

Such was my scheme, and such has been its con- 
sequence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, 
I trifled away the years of improvement; with a 
restless desire of seeing different countries, I have 
always resided in the same city; with the highest 
expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived un- 
married; and with unalterable resolutions of con- 
templative retirement, I am going to die within 
the walls of Bagdad. 

. Dr. Johnson. 



STUDY. 



Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for 
ability. The chief use for delight is in private- 
ness and retirement; for ornament, is in discourse; 
and for ability, is in the judgment and dis- 
position of business. For expert men can execute, 
and, perhaps, judge of particulars, one by one; 
but the general counsels, and the plots, and mar- 

19 



146 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

shalling of affairs, come best from those that are 
learned. To spend too much time in studies is 
sloth; to use them too much for ornament is af- 
fectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules 
is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, 
and are perfected by experience; for natural abi- 
lities are like natural plants , that need pruning 
by duty, and studies themselves do give forth di- 
rections too much at large, except they be boun- 
ded in by experience. Crafty men contemn stu- 
dies; simple men admire them ; and wise men use 
them: for they teach not their own use; but that 
is a wisdom without them, and above them., won 
by observation. Read not to contradict and refute, 
nor to believe and take for granted , nor to find 
talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. 
Some books are to be tasted ; others to be swal- 
lowed, and some few to be chewed and digested, 
that is, some books are to be read only in parts, 
others to be read, but not curiously and some few 
to be read wholly, and with diligence and atten- 
tion. Some books also may be read by deputy, 
and extracts made of them by others; but that 
should be only in the less important arguments, 
and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books 
are like common distilled waters, flashy things. 
Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready 
man, and writing an exact man; and therefore, if 
a man write little, he need have a good memory; 
if he confer little , he need have a present wit, 
and if he read little, he need have much cunning 
to seem to know that which he doth not. 

Bacon. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 147 

THE STORY OF A DISABLED SOLDIER. 

No observation is more common _, and at the 
same time more true , than that one half of the 
world are ignorant how the other half lives. 
The misfortunes of the great are held up to en- 
gage our attention; are enlarged upon in tones of 
declamation: and the world is called upon to gaze 
at the noble sufferers : the great, under the pres- 
sure of calamity , are conscious of several others 
sympathising in their distress, and have, at once, 
the comfort of admiration and pity. 

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing mis- 
fortunes with fortitude, when the whole world is 
looking on: men in such circumstances will act 
bravely, even from motives of vanity; but he who, 
in the vale of obscurity, can brave adversity, with- 
out friends to encourage, acquaintances Jto pity, 
or even without help to alleviate his misfortunes, 
can behave with tranquillity and indifference, is 
truly great; whether peasant or courtier, he de- 
serves admiration, and should be held up for our 
imitation and respect. 

While the slightest inconveniences of the great 
are magnified into calamities; while tragedy mouths 
out their sufferings in all the strains of eloquence, 
the miseries of the poor are entirely disregarded; 
and yet some of the lower ranks of people un- 
dergo more real hardships in one day, than those 
of a more exalted station suffer in their whole life. 
It is inconceivable what difficulties the meanest of 
our common soldiers and sailors endure, without 
murmuring or regret; without passionately de- 
claiming against Providence, or calling their fel- 
lows to be gazers on their intrepidity. Every day 



148 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

is to them a day of misery, and yet they entertain 
their hard fate without repining. 

With, what indignation do I hear an Ovid , a 
Cicero, or a Rabutin complain of their misfortunes 
and hardships, whose greatest calamity was that 
of being unable to visit a certain spot of earth, 
to which they had foolishly attached an idea of 
happiness ! Their distresses were pleasures, com- 
pared to what many of the adventuring poor every 
day endure without murmuring. They ate, drank, 
and slept; they had slaves to attend them, and 
were sure of subsistence for life; while many of 
their fellow-creatures are obliged to wander with- 
out a friend to comfort or assist them, and even 
without shelter from the severity of the season. 
_ I have been led into these reflections from acci- 
dentally meeting, some days ago. a poor fellow 
whom I knew when a boy, dressed in a sailor's 
jacket, and begging at one of the outlets of the 
town with a wooden leg. I knew him to have 
been honest and industrious when in the country, 
and was curious to learn what had reduced him 
to his present situation. Wherefore, after having 
given him what I thought proper, I desired to 
know the history of his life and misfortunes, and 
the manner in which he was reduced to his pre- 
sent distress. The disabled soldier, for such he 
was, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratching 
his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself 
in an attitude to comply with my request, and 
gave me his history as follows: — 

« As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend 
to have gone through any more than other folks; 
for, except the loss of my limb, and my being 
obliged to beg, I don't know any reason, thank 
Heaven , that I have to complain ; there is Bill 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 149 

Tibbs, of our regiment, he has lost both his legs, 
and an eye to the boot; but, thank Heaven, it is 
not so bad with me. 

<*I was born in Shropshire; my father was a 
labourer, and died when I was five years old; so 
I was put upon the parish. As he had been a 
wandering sort of a man, the parishioners were 
not able to tell to what parish I belonged, or 
where I was born, so they sent me to another 
parish, and that parish to a third* I thought in 
my heart, they kept sending me about so long, 
that they would not let me be born in any parish 
at all; but at last, however, they fixed me. I had 
some disposition to be a scholar, and was resolved, 
at least, to know my letters; but the master of 
the work-house put me to business as soon as I 
was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived 
an easy kind of life for five years. I only worked 
ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink 
provided for my labour. It is true, I was not 
suffered to stir out of the house, for fear, as they 
said, I should run away; but what of that, I had 
the liberty of the whole house, and the yard be- 
fore the door, and that was enough for me. I was 
then bound out to a farmer, where I was up both 
early and late; but I' ate and drank well, and 
liked my business well enough, till he died, when 
I was obliged to provide for myself; so I was re- 
solved to go and seek my fortune. 

«In this manner I went from town to town, 
worked when I could get employment , and starv- 
ed when I could get none; when happening to 
go one day through a field belonging to a justice 
of peace, 1 spied a hare crossing the path just be- 
fore me; and I believe the devil put it in my head 
to fling my stick at it: — well, what will you have 



150 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

on't? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away, 
when the justice himself met me; he called me 
a poacher and a villain; and collaring me, desi- 
red I would give an account of myself. I fell 
upon my knees, begged his worship's pardon, and 
began to give a full account of all that 1 knew 
of myself; but though I gave a very true account, 
the justice said I could give no account; so I was 
indicted at sessions, found guilty of being poor, 
and sent up to London to Newgate, in order to 
be transported as a vagabond. 

«People may say this and that of being in jail, 
but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable 
a place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my 
belly-full to eat and drink, and did no work at 
all. This kind of life was too good to last for 
ever; so I was taken out of prison, put on board 
a ship, and sent off, with two hundred more, to 
the plantations. We had but an indifferent pas- 
sage, for, being all confined in the hold, more 
than a hundred of our people died for want of 
sweet air; and those that remained were sickly 
enough, God knows. When we came ashore, we 
were sold to the planters, and I was bound for 
seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did 
not know my letters, I was obliged to work among 
the negroes; and I served out my time, as in duty 
bound to do. 

« When my time was expired , I worked my 
passage home , and glad I was to see Old Eng- 
land again, because I loved my country. I was 
afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a 
vagabond once more, so I did not much care 
to go down into the country , but kept about 
the town, and did little jobs when I could get 
them. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 151 

«I was very happy in this manner for some 
time, till one evening, coming home from work, 
two men knocked me down, and then desired me 
to stand. They belonged to a press-gang: I was 
carried before the justice, and as I could give no 
account of myself, I had my choice left, whether 
to go on board a man of war, or, list for a sol- 
dier. I chose the latter, and in this post of a 
gentleman , I served two campains in Flanders; 
was at the battles of Van and Fontenoy, and re- 
ceived but one wound through the breast here; 
but the doctor of our regiment soon made me well 
again. 

«When the peace came on, I was discharged, 
and as I could not work, because my wound was 
sometimes troublesome, I' listed for a landman in 
the East-India company's service. I have fought 
the French in six pitched battles, and I verily be- 
lieve, that if I had been able to read or write, our 
captain would have made me a corporal. But it was 
not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I 
soon fell sick, and so got leave to return home 
again with forty pounds in my pocket. This was 
at the beginning of the present war, and I hoped 
to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of 
spending my money; but the government wanted 
men, and so I was pressed for a sailor, before 
ever I could set foot on shore. 

« The boatswain found me , as he said , an ob- 
stinate fellow; he swore he knew that I under- 
stood my business well, but that I shammed A- 
braham to be idle; but, God knows, I knew no- 
thing of sea-business, and he beat me without con- 
sidering what he was about. I had still however, 
my forty pounds, and that was some comfort to 



152 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

me under every beating; and the money I might 
have had to this day, but that our ship was taken 
by the French, and so I lost my money. 

«Our crew was carried into Brest, and many 
of them died, because they were not used to live 
in a jail; but for my part, it was nothing to me, 
for I was seasoned. One night, as I was asleep 
on the bed of boards, with a warm blanket about 
me, for I always loved to lie well, I was awa- 
kened by the boatswain, who had a dark-lanthorn 
in his hand. «Jack,» says he to me, «will you 
knock out the French centry's brains ?» «I don't 
care,» says I, striving to keep myself awake, «if 
I lend a hand. » «Then follow me,» says he_, «and 
I hope we shall do business. » So up I got, and 
tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, 
aixmt my middle , and went with him to fight 
the Frenchman. I hate the French, because they 
are all slaves, and wear wooden shoes. 

« Though we had no arms, one Englishman is 
able to beat five Frenchmen at any time; so we 
went down to the door, where both the centries 
were posted, and, rushing upon them, seized their 
arms in a moment, and knocked them down. 
From thence nine of us ran together to the quay, 
and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the 
harbour, and put to sea. We had not been here 
three days, before we were taken up by the Dor- 
set privateer, who were glad of So many good 
hands, and we consented to run our chance. How- 
ever, we had not as much luck as we expected. 
In three days we fell in with the Pompadour pri- 
vateer, of forty guns, while we had but twenty 
three; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. 
The fight lasted for three hours, and I veriiy be- 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 153 

lieve we should have taken the Frenchman, had 
we but had some more men left behind; but un- 
fortunately, we lost all our men, just as we were 
going to get the victory. 

«I was once more in the power of the French, 
and I believe it would have gone hard with me, 
had I been brought back to Brest; but by good 
fortune, we were retaken by the Viper. I had 
almost forgotten to tell you that, in that engage- 
ment, I was wounded in two places: I lost four 
fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. 
If I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg 
on board a king's ship, and not on board a pri- 
vateer, I should have been entitled to clothing and 
maintenance during the rest of my life : but that 
was not my chance: one man is born with a sil- 
ver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wood- 
en ladle. However, blessed be God, I enjoy good 
health, and will for ever love liberty and Old Eng- 
land. Liberty , property , and Old England for 
ever , huzza ! » 

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in ad- 
miration at his intrepidity and content; nor could 
I avoid acknowledging that an habitual acquain- 
tance with misery serves better than philosophy to 
teach us to despise it. 

Goldsmith. 



EFFECTS OF SYMPATHY IN THE DISTRESSES 
OF OTHERS. 

To examine this point, concerning the effect of 
tragedy, in a proper manner, we must previously 
consider, how we are affected by the feelings of 

20 



154 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

our fellow-creatures in circumstances of real dis- 
tress. I am convinced we have a degree of de- 
light, and that no small one, in the real misfor- 
tunes and pains of others; for, let the affection 
he what it will in appearance, if it does not make 
us shun such objects — if; on the contrary, it in- 
duces us to approach them — if it makes us dwell 
upon them, in this case I conceive we must have 
a delight or pleasure , of some species or other, 
in contemplating objects of this kind. Do we not 
read the authentic histories of scenes of this na- 
ture with as much pleasure as romances or poems, 
where the incidents are fictitious? The prosperity 
of no empire, nor the grandeur of no king, can 
so agreeably affect in the reading, as the ruin of 
the state of Macedon, and the distresses of its un- 
happy prince. Such a catastrophe touches us in 
history, as much as the destruction of Troy does 
in fable. Our delight in cases of this kind is very 
greatly heightened, if the sufferer be some ex- 
cellent person who sinks under an unworthy for- 
tune. Scipio and Cato are both virtuous charac- 
ters; but we are more deeply affected by the vio- 
lent death of the one, and the ruin of the great 
cause he adhered to, than with the deserved tri- 
umphs and uninterrupted prosperity of the other; 
for terror is a passion which always produces de- 
light when it does not press too close; and pity 
is a passion accompanied with pleasure, because 
it arises from love and social affection. Whenever 
we are formed by nature to any active purpose, 
the passion which animates us to it is attended 
with delight, or a pleasure of some kind, let the 
subject matter be what it will; and as our Crea- 
tor has designed we should be united together by 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 155 

so strong a bond as that of sympathy, he has there- 
fore twisted along with it a proportionable quan- 
tity of this ingredient; and always in the greatest 
proportion where our sympathy is most wanted, 
in the distresses of others, If this passion was 
simply painful^ we should shun, with the greatest 
care, all persons and places that could excite such 
a passion, as some, who are so far gone in indo- 
lence as not to endure any strong impression, 
actually do. But the case is widely different with 
the greater part of mankind: there is no spectacle 
we so eagerly pursue, as that of some uncommon 
and grievous calamity : so that whether the mis- 
fortune is before our eyes , or whether they are 
turned back to it in history, it always touches 
with delight; but it is not an unmixed delight, 
but blended with no small uneasiness. The de- 
light we have in such things, hinders us from 
shunning scenes of misery; and the pain we feel, 
prompts us to relieve ourselves in relieving those 
who suffer; and all this antecedent to any reason- 
ing, by an instinct that works us to its own 
purposes without our concurrence. 

Burke, on the Sublime, 



MANNER OF MAKING WAR AMONGST THE 

AMERICAN SAVAGES, AND TREATMENT OF 

THEIR PRISONERS. 

The maxims by which they regulate their mili- 
tary operations, though extremely different from 
those which take place among more civilized and 
populous nations^ are well suited to their own 
political state , and the nature of the country in 



156 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

which they act. They never take the field in 
numerous bodies, as it would require a greater 
effort of foresight and industry, than is usual 
amongst savages, to provide for their subsistence 
during a march of some hundred miles through 
dreary forests, or during a long voyage upon their 
lakes and rivers. Their armies are not encumber- 
ed with baggage or military stores. Each war- 
rior, besides his arms, carries a mat and a small 
bag of pounded maize, and with these is com- 
pletely equipped for any service. While at a 
distance from the enemies' frontier, they disperse 
through the woods, and support themselves with 
the game which they kill, or fish which they 
catch. As they approach nearer to the territories 
of the nation which they intend to attack, they 
collect their troops, and advance with greater 
caution. Even in their hottest and most active 
wars, they proceed wholly by stratagem and 
ambuscade. They place not their glory in attack- 
ing their enemies with open force. To surprise 
and destroy is the greatest merit of a commander, 
and the highest pride of his followers. War and 
hunting are their only occupations, and they con- 
duct both with the same spirit and the same arts. 
They follow the track of their enemies through 
the forest. They endeavour to discover their 
haunts," they lurk in some thicket near to these, 
and with the patience of a sportsman lying in 
wait for game, will continue in their station day 
after day, until they can rush upon their prey 
when most secure, and least able to resist them. 
If they meet no straggling party of the enemy, 
they advance towards their villages, but with such 
solicitude to conceal their approach, that they 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 157 

often creep on their hands and feet through the 
woods, and paint their skins of the same colour 
with the withered leaves, in order to avoid detec- 
tion. If so fortunate as to remain unobserved, 
they set on. fire the enemies' huts in the dead of 
the night, and massacre the inhabitants as they 
fly naked and defenceless from the flames. If 
they hope to effect a retreat without being pur- 
sued , they carry off some prisoners , whom they 
reserve for a more dreadful fate. But if, not- 
withstanding all their address and precautions, 
they find that their motions are discovered, that 
the enemy has taken the alarm, and is prepared 
to oppose them, they usually deem it most pru- 
dent to retire. They regard it as extreme folly 
to meet an enemy who is on his guard , upon 
equal terms, or to give battle in open field. The 
most distinguished success is a disgrace to a lea- 
der, if it has been purchased with any consider- 
able loss of his followers, and they never boast 
of a victory , if stained with the blood of their 
own countrymen. To fall in a battle, instead of 
being reckoned an honourable death, is a misfor- 
tune which subjects the memory of a warrior to 
the imputation of raslmess or imprudence. 

But though vigilance and attention are the qua- 
lities chiefly requisite where the object of war is 
to deceive and surprise , and though the Ameri- 
cans, when acting singly, display an amazing de- 
gree of address in concealing their own motions, 
aud discovering those of an enemy, yet it is re- 
markable that, when they take the field in par- 
ties, they can seldom be brought to observe the 
precautions most essential to their own security. 
Such is the difficulty of accustoming savages to 



158 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE, 

subordination, or to act in concert ; such is their 
impatience under restraint, and such their caprice 
and presumption , that it is rarely they can be 
brought to conform themselves to the counsels 
and directions of their leaders. They never sta- 
tion sentinels around the place where they rest 
at night, and after marching some hundred miles 
to surprise an enemy _, are often surprised them- 
selves , and cut off, while sunk in as profound 
sleep as if they were not within reach of danger. 

If, notwithstanding this negligence and security, 
which often frustrate their most artful schemes, 
they catch the enemy unprepared, they rush upon 
them with the utmost ferocity, and tearing off 
the scalps of all those who fall victims to their 
rage, they carry home those strange trophies in 
triumph. These they preserve as monuments not 
only of their own prowess, but of the vengeance 
which their arm has inflicted upon the people who 
were objects of public resentment. They are still 
more solicitous to seize prisoners. During their 
retreat, if they hope to effect it unmolested, the 
prisoners are commonly exempt from any insult, 
and treated with some degree of humanity, though 
guarded with the most strict attention. 

But after this temporary suspension, the rage 
of the conquerors rekindles with new fury. As 
soon as they approach their own frontier, some 
of their numbers are despatched to inform their 
countrymen with respect to the success of the 
expedition. Then the prisoners begin to feel the 
wretchedness of their condition. The women of 
the village, together with the youth who have 
not attained to the age of bearing arms, assemble, 
and forming themselves into two lines, through 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 159 

which the prisoners must pass, beat and bruise 
them with sticks or stones in a cruel manner. 
Alter this first gratification of their rage against 
their enemies, follow lamentations for the loss of 
such of their own countrymen as have fallen in 
the service, accompanied with words and actions 
which seem to express the utmost anguish and 
grief. But, in a moment, upon a signal given, 
their tears cease ; they pass with a sudden and 
unaccountable transition from the depths of sor- 
row to the transports of joy ; and begin to cele- 
brate their victory with all the wild exultation of 
a barbarous triumph. The fate of the prisoners 
remains still undecided. The old men deliberate 
concerning it. Some are destined to be tortured 
to death, in order to satiate the revenge of the 
conquerors; some to replace the members which 
the community has lost in that or former wars. 
They who are reserved for this milder fate, are 
led to the huts of those whose friends have been 
killed. The women meet them at the door, and 
if they receive them, their sufferings are at an 
end. They are adopted into the family, and, ac- 
cording to their phrase, are seated upon the mat 
of the deceased. They assume his name , they 
hold the same rank, and are treated thencefor- 
ward with all the tenderness due to a father, a 
brother , a husband , or a friend. But if, either 
from caprice, or an unrelenting desire of revenge^ 
the women of any family refuse to accept of the 
prisoner who is offered to them, his doom is 
fixed. No power can then save them from torture 
and death. 

While their lot is in suspense, the prisoners 
themselves appear altogether unconcerned about 



160 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

what may befall them. They talk, they eat, they 
sleep, as if they were perfectly at ease, and no 
danger impending. When the fatal sentence is 
intimated to them, they receive it with an unal- 
tered countenance, raise their death-song, and 
prepare to suffer like men. The conquerors as- 
semble as to a solemn festival, resolved to put the 
fortitude of the captive to the utmost proof. A 
scene ensues , the bare description of which is 
enough to chill the heart with horror, wherever 
men have been accustomed by milder institutions 
to respect their species, and to melt into tender- 
ness at the sight of human sufferings. The pri- 
soners are tied naked to a stake, but so as to be 
at liberty to move round it. All who are present 
men, women, and children, rush upon them like 
furies. Every species of torture is applied that 
the rancour of revenge can invent. Some burn 
their limbs with red-hot irons, some mangle their 
bodies with knives, others tear their flesh from 
their bones, pluck out their nails by the roots, 
and rend and twist their sinews. They vie with 
one another in refinements of torture. Nothing 
sets bounds to their rage, but the dread of abridg- 
ing the duration of their vengeance by hastening 
the death of the sufferers; and such is their cruel 
ingenuity in tormenting, that, by avoiding indus- 
triously to hurt any vital part, they often pro- 
long this scene of anguish for several days. In 
spite of all that they suffer, the victims continue 
to chaunt their death-song with a firm voice; they 
boast of their own exploits, they insult their tor- 
mentors for their want of skill in avenging their 
friends and relations, they warn them of the ven- 
geance which awaits them, on account of what 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 161 

they are now doing, and excite their ferocity by 
the most provoking reproaches and threats. To 
display undaunted fortitude in such dreadful si- 
tuations , is the noblest triumph of a warrior. 
To avoid the trial by a voluntary death, or to 
shrink under it, is deemed infamous and cow- 
ardly. If any one betray symptoms of timidity, 
his tormentors often despatch him at once with 
contempt, as unworthy of being treated like a 
man. Animated with those ideas, they endure, 
without a groan, what it seems almost impossi- 
ble that human nature should sustain. They 
appear not only to be insensible of pain, but to 
court it. «Forbear,» said an aged chief of the 
Iroquois, when his insults had provoked one of 
his tormentors to wound , him with a knife, « for- 
bear these stabs of your knife, and rather let 
me die by fire, that those dogs, your allies, from 
beyond the sea, may learn by my example to 
suffer like men. » This magnanimity , of which 
there are frequent instances among the American 
warriors, instead of exciting admiration, or call- 
ing forth sympathy, exasperates the fierce spi- 
rits of their torturers to fresh acts of cruelty. 
Weary, at length, of contending with men whose 
constancy of mind they cannot vanquish, some 
chief, in a rage, puts a period to their sufferings, 
by despatching them with his dagger or club. 

Robertson. 



INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER TO TOM JONES. 

An author ought to consider himself, not as a 
gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary 

21 



162 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

treat, but rather as one who keeps a public or- 
dinary, at which all persons are welcome for their 
money. In the former case, it is well known 
that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; 
and though this should be very indifferent, and 
utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, 
they must not find any fault; nay, on the con- 
trary, good breeding forces them outwardly to 
approve and commend whatever is set before 
them. Now, the contrary of this happens to the 
master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what 
they eat, will insist on gratifying their palates, 
however nice and whimsical these may prove; 
and if every thing is not agreeable to their taste, 
will challenge a right to censure and abuse their 
dinner without controul. 

To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their 
customers by any such disappointment, it hath 
been usual with the honest and well meaning 
host, to provide a bill of fare, which all persons 
may peruse, at their first entrance into the house; 
and having thence acquainted themselves with the 
entertainment which they may expect, may either 
stay and regale themselves with what is provided 
for them, or may depart to some other ordinary 
better accommodated to their taste. 

As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom 
from any man who is capable of lending us either*, 
we have condescended to take a hint from these 
honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a 
general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, 
but shall likewise give the reader particular bills 
to every course which is to be served up in this 
and the ensuing volumes. 

The provision, then, which we have here made, 
is no other than Human Nature. Nor do I 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 163 

fear that my sensible reader, though most luxu- 
rious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offen- 
ded, because I have named hut one article. 
The tortoise, as the alderman of Bristol, well 
learned in eating, knows by much experience, 
besides the delicious calipash and calipee, con- 
tains many different kinds of food ; nor can the 
learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, 
though here collected under one general name, is 
such prodigious variety, that a cook will sooner 
have gone through all the several species of ani- 
mal and vegetable food in the world, than an 
author will be able to exhaust so extensive a 
subject. 

An objection may perhaps be apprehended from 
the more delicate, that this dish is too common 
and vulgar; for what else is the subject of all 
the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with 
which the stalls ahound? Many exquisite viands 
might be rejected by the epicure, if it was suffi- 
cient cause for his contemning them, as common 
and vulgar, that something was to be found in 
the most paltry alleys under the same name. In 
reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with 
in authors, as the Bayonne ham or Bologna sau- 
sage is to be found in the shops. 

But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, 
consists in the cookery of the author; for, as 
Mr. Pope tells us, — 

"True wit is nature to advantage dress'd, 
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd." 

The same animal which hath the honour to 
have some of its flesh eaten at the tahle of a duke, 
may perhaps be degraded in some other part, and 



164 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

some of his limbs gibetted, as it were_, in the 
vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the dif- 
ference between the food of the nobleman and 
the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox 
or calf, but in the seasonning, the dressing, the 
garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one 
provokes and incites the most languid appetite, 
and the other turns and palls that which is the 
sharpest and keenest. 

In like manner, the excellence of the mental 
entertainment consists less in the subject, than 
in the author's skill in well dressing it up. How 
pleased, therefore,, will the reader be to find, that 
we have, in the following work, adhered closely 
to one of the highest principles of the best cook 
which the present age, or perhaps that of Helio- 
gabalus, hath produced. This great man, as is 
well known to all lovers of polite eating, begins 
at first by setting plain things before his hungry 
guests, rising afterwards by degrees, as their sto- 
machs may be supposed to decrease, to the very 
quintessence of sauces and spices. In like man- 
ner, we shall represent human nature at first to 
the keen appetite of our reader, in that more plain 
and simple manner in which it is found in the 
country, and shall hereafter hash and ragoo it 
with all the high French and Italian seasoning of 
affectation and vice, which courts and cities af- 
ford. By these means, we doubt not but our 
readers may "be rendered desirous to read on for 
ever, as the great person, just above mentioned, 
is supposed to have made some persons eat. 

Having premised thus much, we will now de- 
tain those who like our bill of fare, no longer 
from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 160 

up the first course of our history, for their en- 
tertainment. 

Fielding. 



THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE 
ANTIQUARY. 

My friend, the doctor, was a thorough anti- 
quary ; a little rusty , musty , old fellow , always 
groping among ruins. He relished a building as 
Englishmen relish cheese; the more mouldy and 
crumbling it was, the more it suited his taste. 
A shell of an old nameless temple, or the cracked 
walls of an old broken-down amphitheatre, would 
throw him into raptures; and he took more de- 
light in these crusts and cheese-parings of antiqui- 
ty^ than in the^ best-conditioned modern palaces. 

He was a curious collector of coins also, and 
had just gained an accession of wealth that al- 
most turned his brain. He had picked up , for 
instance, several Roman Consulars, half a Roman 
As, two Punics, which had doubtless belonged to 
the soldiers of Hannibal, having been found on 
the very spot where they had encamped among 
the Appenines. He had,, moreover, one Samnite, 
struck after the Social War, and a Philistis, a 
queen that never existed; but above all, he va- 
lued himself upon a coin, indescribable to any 
but the initiated in these matters, bearing a cross 
on one side, and a Pegasus on the other, and 
which; by some antiquarian logic, the little man 
adduced as an historical document, illustrating the 
progress of antiquity. 

All these precious coins he carried about him 



166 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

in a leathern purse, buried deep in a pocket of 
his little black breeches. 

The last maggot he had taken into his head, 
was to hunt after the ancient cities of the Pelas- 
gi, which are said to exist to this day, among 
the mountains of the Abruggi; but about which 
a singular degree of obscurity prevails. He had 
made many discoveries concerning them, and had 
recorded a great many valuable notes and memo- 
randums on the subject, in a voluminous book, 
which he always carried about with him, either 
for the purpose of frequent reference, or through 
fear lest the precious document should fall into 
the hands of brother antiquaries. He had, there- 
fore, a large pocket in the skirt of his coat, 
where he bore about this inestimable tome, bang- 
ing against him as he walked. 

Thus heavily laden with the spoils of antiquity, 
the good little man, during a sojourn at Terracina, 
mounted one day the rocky cliffs which overhang 
the town, to visit the castle of Theodoric. He 
was groping about the ruins, towards the hour of 
sunset, buried in his reflections, his wits, no doubt, 
wool-gathering among the Goths and Romans, 
when he heard footsteps behind him. 

He turned, and beheld five or six young fellows, 
of rough, saucy demeanour, clad in a singular 
manner, half peasant, half huntsman, with car- 
bines in their hands. Their whole appearance and 
carriage left him no doubt into what company 
he had fallen. 

The doctor was a feeble little man, poor in look, 
and poorer in purse. He had but little gold or 
silver to be robbed of; but then he had his cu- 
rious ancient coin in his breeches-pocket. He 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 167 

had, moreover, certain other valuables, such as an 
old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with figures 
on it large enough for a clock; and a set of seals 
at the end of a steel chain, that dangled half 
way down to his knees. All these were of pre- 
cious esteem, being family relics. He had also a 
seal-ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered 
half his knuckles. It was a Venus, which the 
old man almost worshipped with the zeal of a vo- 
luptuary. But what he most valued, was his 
inestimable collection of hints, relative to the Pe- 
lasgian cities, which he would gladly have given 
all the money in his pocket to have had safe in 
the bottom of his trunk, at Terracina. 

However, he plucked up a stout heart, at least 
as stout a heart as he could, seeing he was but 
a puny little man at the best of times. So he 
wished the hunters a u buon giorno.' 1 They re- 
turned his salutation, giving the old gentleman 
a sociable slap on the back, that made his heart 
leap into his throat. 

They fell into conversation, and walked for 
some time together among the heights, the Doctor 
wishing them all the while at the bottom of the 
crater of Vesuvius. At length, they came to a 
small asteria on the mountain, when they propo- 
posed to enter and have a cup of wine together; 
the Doctor consented, though he would as soon 
have been invited to drink hemlock. 

One of the young gang remained sentinel at the 
door; the others swaggered into the house, stood 
their guns in the corner of the room, and each 
drawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, laid it 
upon the table. They now drew benches round 
the board, called lustily for wine, and hailing 



168 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

the Doctor as though he had been a boon compa- 
nion of long standing, insisted upon his sitting 
down and making merry. 

The worthy man complied, with forced grimace, 
but with fear and trembling ; sitting uneasily on 
the edge of his chair; eyeing ruefully the black- 
muzzled pistols, and cold, naked stilettoes ; and sup- 
ping down heart-burn with every drop of liquor. 
His new comrades, however, pushed the bottle 
bravely, and plied him vigorously. They sang; 
they laughed; told excellent stories of their rob- 
beries and combats, mingled with many ruffian 
jokes; and the little Doctor was fain to laugh 
at all their cut-throat pleasantries, though his heart 
was dying away at the very bottom of his bosom. 

By their own account, they were young men 
from the villages, who had recently taken up this 
line of life, out of the wild caprice of youth. 
They talked of their murderous exploits, as a 
sportsman talks of his amusements. To shoot down 
a traveller, seemed of little more consequence to 
them than to shoot a hare. They spoke with rap- 
ture of the glorious roving life they led, free as 
birds ; here to-day, gone to morrow; ranging the 
forests, climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys; 
the world their own, wherever they could lay hold 
of it; full purses, merry companions, pretty wo- 
men. The little antiquary got fuddled with their 
talk and their wine_, for they did not spare bum- 
pers. He half forgot his fears , his seal-ring, and 
his family watch; even the treatise on the Pelas- 
gian cities, which was warming under him, for 
a time faded from his memory in the glowing 
picture that they drew. He declares that he no 
longer wonders at the prevalence of this robber 






SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 169 

mania among the mountains ; for he felt at the 
time, that had he been a young man, and a strong 
man, and had there been no danger of the gal- 
lons in the back-ground , he should have been 
half tempted himself to turn bandit. 

At length, the hour of separating arrived. The 
Doctor yvas suddenly called to himself and his 
fears, by seeing the robbers resume their weap- 
ons. He now quaked for his valuables, and above 
all, for his antiquarian treatise. He endeavour- 
ed, however, to look cool and unconcerned; and 
drew from out his deep pocket a long, lank, 
leathern purse , far gone in consumption, at the 
bottom of which a few coins chinked with the 
trembling of his hand. 

The chief of the partv observed his movement, 
and laving his hand upon the antiquary's shoul- 
der, uHarkee, Signor Dottore ! » said he, « we have 
drunk together as friends and comrades : let us 
part as such. We understand you. We know 
who and what you are; for we know who every 
body is that sleeps at Terracina, or that puts foot 
upon the road. You are a rich man , but you 
carry all your wealth in your head; we cannot 
get at it, and we should not know what to do 
with it, if we could. I see you are uneasy about 
your ring, but don"t worry yourself , it is not 
worth taking; you think it an antique, but it J s a 
counterfeit; a mere sham. » 

Here the ire of the antiquary arose: the Doctor 
forgot himself in his zeal for the character of his 
ring. Heaven and earth! His Venus a sham! 
Had he pronounced the wife of his bosom «no 
better than she should be,» he could not have 
been more indignant. He fired up in vindication 
of his intaglio. 



$ 

170 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

«Nay, nay,)) continued the robber, «we have 
no time to dispute about it; value it as you please. 
Come, you're a brave little old signor; one more 
cup of wine, and we'll pay the reckoning. No 
compliments; you shall not pay a grain; you are 
our guest; I insist upon it; so, now, make the 
best of your way back to Terracina; it's growing 
late. Buon viaggio! and, harkee! take care how 
you wander among these mountains; you may not 
always fall into such good company.)) 

They shouldered their guns, sprang gaily up 
the rocks, and the little Doctor hobbled back to 
Terracina; rejoicing that the robbers had left his 
watch, his coins, and his treatise, unmolested; 
but still indignant that they should have pronoun- 
ced his Venus an impostor. 

Washington Irving. 



THE FORTUNES OF MARTIN WALDECK. 

FROM THE ANTIQUARY. 

The solitudes of the Harz forest in Germany, 
but especially the mountains called Blockberg, or 
rather Brockenberg, are the chosen scene for the 
tales of witches, demons and apparitions. The 
occupation of the inhabitants, who arc either mi- 
ners or foresters, is of a kind that renders them 
peculiarly prone to superstition, and the natural 
phenomena which they witness, in pursuit of their 
solitary or subterraneous profession, are often set 
down by them to the interference of goblins, or 
the power of magic. Among the various legends 
current in that wild country, there is a favourite 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 171 

one, which supposes the Harz to be haunted by 
a sort of tutelar demon, in the shape of a wild 
man, of huge stature; his head wreathed with 
oak-leaves, and his middle cinctured with the 
same, bearing in his hand a pine torn up by the 
roots. It is certain that many persons profess to 
have seen such a form, traversing with huge 
strides the opposite ridge of a mountain, when 
divided from it by a narrow glen; and indeed the 
fact of the apparition is so generally admitted, 
that modern scepticism has only found refuge, by 
ascribing it to optical deception. 

In elder times, the intercourse of the demon 
with the inhabitants was more familiar, and ac- 
cording to the Harz, he was wont, with the ca- 
price usually ascribed to these earth-born powers, 
to interfere with the affairs of mortals, sometimes 
for their weal, sometimes for their woe. But it 
was observed, that even his gifts often turned out, 
in the long run, fatal to those on whom they 
were bestowed; and it was no uncommon thing 
for the pastors, in the care of the flocks, to com- 
pose long sermons, the burthen thereof was a 
warning against having any intercourse, direct or 
indirect, with the Harz-demon. 

A travelling capuchin had possessed himself of 
the pulpit of the thatched church at a little ham- 
let called Morgenbrodt, lying in the Harz district; 
from which he declaimed against the wickedness 
of the inhabitants, their communication with fiends, 
witches, and fairies; and, in particular, with the 
woodland goblin of the Harz. The doctrines of 
Luther had already begun to spread among the 
peasantry, for the incident is placed under the 
reign of Charles V, and they laughed to scorn the 
zeal with which the venerable man insisted upon 



172 / SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

his topic. At length, as his vehemence encreased 
with opposition , so their opposition rose in pro- 
portion to his vehemence. The inhabitants did 
not like to hear an accustomed quiet demon, who 
had inhabited the Brockenberg so many ages, sum- 
marily confounded with Baal-peor, Ashtaroth, and 
Beelzebub himself, and condemned, without re- 
prieve, to the bottomless Tophet. The apprehen- 
sions that the spirit might avenge himself on them, 
for listening to such an illiberal sentence, added 
to their natural interest in his behalf. A travel- 
ling friar, they said, that is here to-day and away 
to-morrow, may say what he pleases; but it is we, 
the ancient and constant inhabitants of the coun- 
try , that are left at the mercy of the insulted 
demon, and must, of course, pay for all. Under 
the irritation occasioned by these reflections, the 
peasants, from injurious language, betook them- 
selves to stones, and having pebbled the priest 
pretty handsomely , they drove him out of the 
parish, to preach against demons elsewhere. 

Three young men, who had been present and 
assisting upon this occasion, were upon their re- 
turn to the hut, where they carried on the la- 
borious and mean occupation of preparing charcoal 
for the smelting furnaces. On the way , their 
conversation naturally turned upon the demon of 
the Harz, and the doctrine of the capuchin. Max 
and George Waldeck, the two elder brothers, 
although they allowed the language of the capu- 
chin to have been indiscreet, and worthy of cen- 
sure, as presuming to determine upon the precise 
character and abode of the spirit, yet contended 
it was dangerous, in the highest degree, to accept 
of his gifts, or hold any communication with him. 
He was powerful, they allowed, but wayward 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 173 

and capricious; and those who had intercourse 
with him, seldom came to a good end. Did he 
not give the brave knight, Ecbert of Rabenwald, 
that famous black steed, by means of which he 
vanquished all the champions at the great tourna- 
ment at Bremen? and did not the same steed af- 
terwards precipitate itself, with its rider, into an 
abyss so deep and fearful, that neither horse nor 
man was ever seen more? Had he not given to 
Dame Gertrude Trodden a curious spell for making 
butter come? and was she not burned for a witch 
by the grand criminal judge of the Electorate, 
because she availed herself of his gift? But these 
and many other instances which they quoted, of 
mischance and ill-luck attendant upon the appa- 
rent benefits conferred by the Harz-spirit, failed 
to make any impression upon Martin Waldeck. 
the youngest of the brothers. 

Martin was youthful , rash, and presumptuous; 
excelling in all the exercises which distinguish a 
mountaineer, and brave and undaunted from his 
familiar intercourse with the dangers that attend 
them. He laughed at the timidity of his brothers. 
«Tell me not of such ,folly^» he said; «the de- 
mon is a good demon — he lives among us as if 
he were a peasant like ourselves — haunts the 
lonely craigs and recesses of the mountains, like a 
huntsman or goat-herd, and he who loves the 
Harz-forest and its wild scenes, cannot be indif- 
ferent to the fate of the hardy children of the 
soil. But if the demon were as malicious as you 
would make him, how should he derive power 
over mortals, who barely avail themselves of his 
gifts, without binding themselves to submit to his 
pleasure. When you carry your charcoal to the 
furnace , is not the money as good that is paid 



J 74 ' SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

you by blaspheming Blaize, the old reprobate over- 
seer, as if you got it from the pastor himself? 
It is not the goblin's gifts which can endanger 
you then, but it is the use you shall make of them 
that you must account for. And were the demon 
to appear to me at this moment, and indicate to 
me a gold or silver mine, I would begin to dig 
away even before his back were turned, and I 
should consider myself as under the protection 
of a much greater power than he, while I made 
a good use of the wealth he pointed out to me.» 

To this the elder brother replied, that wealth 
ill won was seldom well spent, while Martin pre- 
sumptuously declared, that the possession of all 
the treasures of the Harz would not make the 
slightest alteration on his habits, morals or cha- 
racter. 

His brother entreated Martin to talk less wildly 
upon this subject j and with some difficulty con- 
trived to withdraw his attention, by calling it to 
the consideration of the approaching boar-chase. 
This talk brought them to their hut, a wretched 
wigwam, situated upon one side of a wild, nar- 
row, and romantic dell, in the recesses of the 
Brockenberg. They released their sister from wait- 
ing upon the operation of charring the wood, 
which requires constant attention, and divided 
among themselves the duty of watching it by night, 
according to their custom , one always waking 
while his brothers slept. 

Max Waldeck, the eldest, watched during the 
two first hours of the night, and was considerably 
alarmed by observing, upon the opposite bank of 
the glen, or valley, a huge fire, surrounded by 
some figures that appeared to Avhirl around it 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 175 

with antic gestures. Max at first bethought him 
of calling up his brothers; but recollecting the 
daring character of the youngest, and finding it 
impossible to wake the elder without also disturb- 
ing him — conceiving also what he saw to be an 
illusion of the demon, sent perhaps in consequence 
of the venturous expressions used by Martin on 
the preceding evening, he thought it best to 
betake himself to the safeguard of such prayers 
as he could murmur over, and to watch in great 
terror and annoyance this strange and alarming 
apparition. After blazing for some time, the fire 
faded gradually away into darkness, and the rest 
of Max's watch was only disturbed by the remem- 
brance of its terrors. 

George now occupied the place of Max, who 
had retired to rest. The phenomenon of a huge 
blazing fire, upon the opposite bank of the glen, 
again presented itself to the eye of the watch- 
man. It was surrounded, as before, by figures, 
which, distinguished by their opaque forms, being 
between the spectator and the red glaring light, 
moved and fluctuated around it, as if engaged in 
some mystical ceremony. George, though equally 
cautious , was of a bolder character than his el- 
der brother. He resolved to examine more nearly 
the object of his wonder; and accordingly, after 
crossing the rivulet which divided the glen, he 
climbed up the opposite bank, and approached 
within an arrow's flight of the fire, which blazed 
apparently with the same fury as when he first 
witnessed it. 

The appearance of the assistants who surround- 
ed it , resembled those phantoms which are seen 
in a troubled dream, and at once confirmed the 
idea he had entertained from the first, that they 



176 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

did not belong to the human world. Among these 
strange unearthly forms, George Waldeck distin- 
guished that of a giant, overgrown with hair, 
holding an uprooted fir in his hand, with which, 
from time to time, he seemed to stir the blazing 
fire, and having no other clothing than a wreath 
of oak-leaves around his forehead and loins. 
George's heart sunk within him at recognizing the 
well-known apparition of the Harz-demon, as he 
had been often described to him , by the ancient 
shepherds and huntsmen, who had seen his form 
traversing the mountains. He turned, and was 
about to fly; but, upon second thoughts, blaming 
his own cowardice, he recited mentally the verse 
of the psalmist, « All good angels praise the lord!» 
which is, in that country, supposed powerful as 
an exorcism, and turned himself once more to- 
wards the place where he had seen the fire. But 
it was no longer visible ; the pale moon alone 
enlightened the side of the valley _, and when 
George, with trembling steps, a moist brow, and 
hair bristling upright, under his collier's cap^ came 
to the spot on which the fire had been so lately 
visible, marked as it was by a scathed oak-tree, 
there appeared not on the heath the slightest ves- 
tiges of what he had seen. The moss and wild 
flowers were unscorched, and the branches of the 
oak-tree, which had so lately appeared enveloped 
in wreaths of flame and smoke, were moist with 
the dews of midnight. 

George returned to his hut with trembling 
steps, and arguing , like his elder brother, resol- 
ved to say nothing of what he had seen, lest he 
should awake in Martin that daring curiosity, 
which he almost deemed to be allied with im- 
piety. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 177 

It was now Martin's turn to watch. The house- 
hold cock had given his first summons, and the 
night was well nigh spent. Upon examining the 
state of the furnace, in which the wood was de- 
posited , in order to its heing coked or charred, 
he was surprised to find that the fire had not been 
sufficiently maintained; for in his excursion and 
its consequences, George had forgot the principal 
object of his watch. Martin's first thought was 
to call up the slumberers; but observing that both 
his brothers slept unwontedly deep and heavily, 
he respected their repose, and set himself to sup- 
ply the furnace with fuel, without requiring their 
aid. What he heaped upon it was apparently 
damp, and unfit for the purpose, for the fire seem- 
ed rather to decay than to revive. Martin next 
went to collect some boughs from a stack, which 
had been carefully cut and dried for this purpose; 
but, when he returned, he found the fire totally 
extinguished. This was a serious evil, and threat- 
ened them with loss of their trade for more than 
one day. The vexed and mortified watchman set 
about to strike a lights in orcler to rekindle the 
fire , but the tinder was moist , and his labour 
proved in this respect also ineffectual. He was 
now about to call up his brothers, for circum- 
stances seemed to be pressing, when flashes of 
light glimmered, not only through the window, 
but through every crevice of the rudely-built hut, 
and summoned him to behold the same apparition 
which had before alarmed the successive watches 
of his brethren. His first idea was that the Muhll- 
herhausserSj their rivals in trade, and with whom 
they had had many quarrels, might have encroach- 
ed upon their bounds, for the purpose of pirat- 
ing their wood, and he resolved to awake his 

23 



178 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

brothers, and be revenged on them for their auda*- 
city. But a short reflection and observation on 
the gestures and mariners of those who seemed 
to work the fire, induced him to dismiss this be- 
lief, and although rather sceptical in such mat- 
ters , to conclude that what he saw was a super- 
natural phenomenon. «But be they men or fiends, » 
said the undaunted forester, «that busy themselves 
yonder with such fantastical rites and gestures, 
I will go and demand a light to rekindle our 
furnace. » He relinquished at the same time the 
idea of awaking his brothers. There was a be- 
lief that such adventures as he was about to un- 
dertake were accessible only to one person at a 
time; he feared also that his brothers, in their 
scrupulous timidity , might interfere to prevent 
his pursuing the investigation he had resolved to 
commence; and therefore, snatching his boar-spear 
from the wall, the undaunted Martin Waldeck 
set forth on the adventure alone. 

With the same success as his brother George, 
but with courage fur superior, Martin crossed the 
brook, ascended the hill, and approached so near 
the ghostly assembly, that he could recognise in 
the presiding figure, the attributes of the Harz- 
demon. A cold shuddering assailed him for the 
first time in his life; but the recollection that he 
had at a distance dared, and even courted the 
intercourse which was now about to take place, 
confirmed his staggering courage, and pride sup- 
plying what he wanted in resolution, he advan- 
ced with tolerable firmness towards the fire, the 
figures which surrounded it appearing still more 
Avild, fantastical, and supernatural, the more nearly 
he approached the assembly. He was received 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 179 

with a loud shout of discordant and unnatural 
laughter, which, to his stunned ears, seemed more 
alarming than a combination of the most dismal 
and melancholy sounds that could be imagined. 
«"\Yho art thou?» said the giant, compressing his 
savage and exaggerated features into a sort of for- 
ced gravity, while they were occasionally agitated 
by the convulsion of the laughter which he seem- 
ed to suppress. 

« Martin Waldeck, the forester,)) exclaimed the 
hardy youth; — «iVnd who are you?)> 

«The king of the Waste, and of the Mine,» 
answered the spectre; — «and why hast thou da- 
red to encroach on my mysteries?)) 

ul came in search of light to rekindle my fire, » 
answered Martin hardily; and then resolutely asked 
in his turn, a What mysteries are those that you 
celebrate here ? » 

uWe celebrate,)) answered the complaisant de- 
mon, athe wedding of Hermes with the Black 
Dragon; but take thy fire that thou earnest to 
seek, and begone. No mortal may long look upon 
us and live. » 

The peasant struck his spear-point into a large 
piece of blazing wood, which he heaved up with 
some difficulty, and then turned round to regain 
his hut, the shouts of laughter being renewed be- 
hind him with treble violence , and ringing far 
down the narrow valley. When Martin returned 
to the hut, however much astonished with what 
he had seen, his first care was to dispose the 
kindled coal among the fuel , so as might best 
light the fire of his furnace; but after many ef- 
forts, and all exertions of bellows and fire-prong, 
the coal he had brought from the demon's fire 



180 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

became totally extinct, without kindling any of 
the others. He turned about , and observed the 
fire still blazing on the hill, although those who 
had been busied round it had disappeared. As 
he conceived the spectre had been jesting with 
him, he gave way to the natural hardihood of his 
temper, and determining to see the adventure to 
an end, resumed the road to the fire, from which, 
unopposed by the demon, he brought off, in the 
same manner, a blazing piece of charcoal, but still 
without being able to succeed in lighting his fire. 
Impunity having encreased his rashness, he resol- 
ved upon a third experiment, and was as suc- 
cessful as before in reaching the fire \ but when 
he had again appropriated a piece of burning coal, 
and had turned to depart, he heard the harsh and 
supernatural voice which had before accosted him, 
pronounce these words; — «Dare not to return hi- 
ther a fourth time.» 

The attempt to kindle the fire with this last 
coal having proved as ineffectual as on the for- 
mer occasions, Martin relinquished the hopeless 
attempt^ and flung himself on his bed of leaves, 
resolving to delay till the next morning the com- 
munication of his supernatural adventure to his 
brothers. He was awakened from a heavy sleep 
into which he had sunk , from fatigue of body 
and agitation of mind , by loud exclamations of 
surprise and joy. His brothers, astonished at find- 
ing the fire extinguished when they awoke, had 
proceeded to arrange the fuel in order to renew 
it, when they found in the ashes three huge me- 
tallic masses , which their skill (for most of the 
peasants in the Harz are practical mineralogists) 
immediately ascertained to be pure gold. 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 181 

It was some damp upon their joyful congratu- 
lations, when they learned from Martin the mode 
in which he had obtained this treasure, to which 
their own experience of the nocturnal vision in- 
duced them to give full credit. But they were 
unable to resist the temptation of sharing in their 
brother's wealth. Taking now upon him as head 
of the house, Martin Waldeck bought lands and 
forests, built a castle., obtained a patent of no- 
bility, and greatly to the scorn of the ancient 
aristocracy of the neighbourhood, was invested 
with all the privileges of a man of family. His 
courage in public war, as well as in private feuds, 
together with the number of retainers whom he 
kept in pay, sustained him for some time against 
the odium which was excited by his sudden ele- 
vation, and the arrogance of his pretentions. And 
now it was seen in the instance of Martin Wal- 
deck, as it has been in that of many others, how 
little mortals can foresee the effects of sudden 
prosperity on their own disposition. The evil 
propensities in his nature , which poverty had 
checked and repressed, ripened and bore their un- 
hallowed fruit, under jthe influence of temptation, 
and the means of indulgence. As Deep calls unto 
Deep, one bad passion awakened another; the fiend 
of avarice invoked that of pride, and pride was 
to be supported by cruelty and oppression. Wal- 
deck's character, always bold and daring, but 
rendered harsh and assuming by prosperity, soon 
made him odious , not to the nobles only , but 
likewise to the lower ranks, who saw, with dou- 
ble dislike, the oppressive rights of the feudal no- 
bility of the empire so remorselessly exercised by 
one who had risen from the very dregs of the 
people. His adventure , although carefully con- 



182 SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

cealed, began likewise to be whispered abroad, 
and the clergy already stigmatized as a wizard, 
and accomplice of fiends, the wretch, who hav- 
ing acquired so huge a treasure in so strange a 
manner , had not sought to sanctify it , by dedi- 
cating a considerable portion to the use of the 
church. Surrounded by enemies, public and pri- 
vate, tormented by a thousand feuds y and threat- 
ened by the church with excommunication, Mar- 
tin Waldeck, or, as we must now call him, the 
Baron Von Waldeck, often regretted bitterly the 
labours and sports of his unenvied poverty. But 
his courage failed him not under all these diffi- 
culties, and seemed rather to augment in propor- 
tion to the danger which darkened around him., 
until an accident precipitated his fall. 

A proclamation by the reigning Duke of Bruns- 
wick had invited to a solemn tournament, all 
German nobles of free and honourable descent, 
and Martin Waldeck , accompanied by his two 
brothers, and a gallantly equipped retinue, had the 
arrogance to appear among the chivalry of the 
province, and demand permission to enter the 
lists. This was considered as filling up the mea- 
sure of his presumption. A thousand voices ex- 
claimed. «We will have no cinder-sifter mingle 
in our games of chivalry. » Irritated to frenzy, 
Martin drew his sword, and hewed down the her- 
ald, who, in compliance to the general outcry, 
opposed his entry into the lists. A hundred 
swords were unsheathed to avenge what was in 
those days regarded as a crime only inferior to 
sacrilege, or regicide. Waldeck, after defending 
himself like a lion, was seized, tried on the spot 
by the judge of the lists, and condemned, as the 
appropriate punishment for breaking the peace of 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE, 183 

his sovereign, and violating the sacred person of 
a herald-at-arms , to have his right hand struck 
from his body, to be ignominiously deprived of 
the honour of nobility, of which he was unworthy, 
and be expelled from the city. When he had 
been stripped of his arms, and sustained the muti- 
lation imposed by this severe sentence, the un- 
happy victim of ambition was abandoned to the 
rabble, who followed him with threats and out- 
cries, levelled alternately against the necromancer 
and oppressor, which at length ended in violence. 
His brothers (for his retinue were fled and dis- 
persed) at length succeeded in rescuing him from 
the hands of the populace, when, satiated with 
cruelty, they had left him half dead through 
loss of blood, and through the outrages he had 
sustained. They were not permitted, such was 
the ingenious cruelty of their enemies , to make 
use of any other means of removing him, except- 
ing such a collier's cart as they had themselves 
formerly used, in which they deposited their bro- 
ther on a truss of straw, scarcely expecting to 
reach any place of shelter , ere death should re- 
lease him from his misery. 

When the Waldecks, journeying in this miser- 
able manner, had approached the verge of their 
native country , in a hollow way , between two 
mountains, they perceived a figure advancing to- 
wards them, which , at first sight, seemed to be 
an aged man; but as he approached, his limbs 
and stature encreased, the cloak fell from his 
shoulders, his pilgrim's staff was changed into 
an uprooted pine-tree, and the gigantic figure of 
the Harz demon passed before them in his ter- 



184 ' SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

rors. When he came opposite to the cart which 
contained the miserable Waldeck, his huge fea- 
tures dilated into a grin of unutterable contempt 
and malignity, as he asked the sufferer, «How 
like you the fire my coals have kindled ?» The 
power of motion, which terror suspended in his 
two brothers, seemed to be restored to Martin by 
the energy of his courage. He raised himself on 
the cart, bent his brows, and clenching his fist, 
shook it at the spectre , with a ghastly look of 
hate and defiance. The goblin vanished with his 
usual tremendous and explosive laugh, and left 
Waldeck exhausted with the effort of expiring 
nature. 

The terrified brothers turned the vehicle to- 
ward the towers of a convent, which arose in 
a wood of pine-trees beside the road. They 
were charitably received by a bare-footed and 
long-bearded capuchin, and Martin survived only 
to complete the first confession he had made 
since the day of his sudden prosperity ^ and to re- 
ceive absolution from the very priest, whom, 
precisely on that day three years, he had assis- 
ted to pelt out of the hamlet of Morgenbrodt. 
The three years of precarious prosperity were 
supposed to have a mysterious correspondence 
with the number of his visits to the spectral fire 
upon the hill. 

The body of Martin Waldeck was interred in 
the convent where he expired, in which his bro- 
thers, having assumed the habit of the order, 
lived and died in the performance of acts of cha- 
rity and devotion. His lands, to which no one 
asserted any claim, lay waste until they were 



SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 185 

reassumed by the emperor as a lapsed fief, and 
the ruins of the castle, which Waldeck had cal- 
led by his own name , are still shunned by the 
miner and forester, as haunted by evil spirits. 
Thus were the miseries attendant upon wealth 
hastily attained and ill-employed, exemplified in 
the fortunes of Martin Waldeck. 



— a^BBfr^gg ~<ffv~- 



°24 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES 



SCENE FROM FALSE DELICACY. 
RIVERS and SIR HARRY. 

Sir Harry. Colonel, your most obedient; I am 
come upon the old business, for unless I am al- 
lowed to entertain hopes of Miss Rivers, I shall 
be the most miserable of all human beings. 

Rivers. Sir Harry, I have already told you by 
letter, and I now tell you personally, I cannot 
listen to your proposals. 

Sir Harry. No, sir? 

Rivers. No, sir; I have promised my daughter 
to Mr. Sidney — do you know that, sir? 

Sir Harry. I do; but what then? Engagements 
of this kind, you know — 

Rivers. So, then, you do know I have promis- 
ed her to Mr. Sidney? 

Sir Harry. I do; but I also know that matters 
are not finally settled between Mr. Sidney and 



190 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

you; and I moreover know, that his fortune is by 
no means equal to mine, therefore — 

Rivers. Sir Harry, let me ask you one ques- 
tion before you make your consequence. 

Sir Harry. A thousand, if you please, sir. 

Rivers. Why then, sir, let me ask you, what 
you have ever observed in me or my conduct, 
that you desire me so familiarly to break my 
word : I thought, sir, you considered me as a man 
of honour. 

Sir Harry. And so I do, sir, a man of the ni- 
cest honour. 

Rivers. And yet, sir, you ask me to violate 
the sanctity of my word; and tell me directly that 
it is my interest to be a rascal. 

Sir Harry. I really don't understand you, co- 
lonel: I thought when I was talking to you, I was 
talking to a man who knew the world; and as 
you have not yet signed — 

Rivers. Why, this is mending matters with a 
witness! and so you think because I am not le- 
gally bound, I am under no necessity of keeping 
my word ! Sir Harry, laws were never made for 
men of honour; they want no bond but the rec- 
titude of their own sentiments, and laws are of 
no use but to bind the villains of society. 

Sir Harry. Well ! but my dear colonel, if you 
have no regard for me, show some little regard 
for your daughter. 

Rivers. I show the greatest regard for my 
daughter by giving her to a man of honour; and 
I must not be insulted by any further repetition 
of your proposals. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 



191 



Sir Harry. Insult you , colonel ! Is the offer 
of my alliance an insult? Is my readiness to make 
what settlements you think proper — 

Rivers. Sir Harry, I should consider the offer 
of a kingdom an insult, if it was to he purcha- 
sed by the violation of my word ; besides, though 
my daughter shall never go a beggar to the arms 
of her husband, I would rather see her happy 
than rich: and if she has enough to provide hand- 
somely for a young family, and something to 
spare for the exigencies of a worthy friend, I 
shall think her as affluent as if she were mistress 
of Mexico. 

Sir Harry. Well , colonel, I have done ; but I 
believe — 

Rfvers. Well , sir Harry, and as our conference 
is done, we will, if you please, retire to the 
ladies. I shall be always glad of your acquain- 
tance, though I cannot receive you as a son-in- 
law ; for a union of interest I look upon as a 
union of dishonour, and consider a marriage for 
money as the height of infamy. 



SCENE FROM THE CONSCIOUS LOVERS. 
HUMPHREY and TOM. 

Tom. Sir, we servants of single gentlemen are 
another kind of people than you domestic ordi- 
nary drudges that do business; we are raised above 
you: the pleasures of board-wages, tavern-dinners, 
and many a clear-gain; vails, alas! you never 
heard or dreamed of. 



\ 

192 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Humphrey. Thou hast follies and vices enough 
for a man of ten thousand a year, though it is 
hut t'other day that I sent for you to town, to 
put you into Mr. Sealands family, that you might 
learn a little before I put you to my young mas- 
ter, who is too gentle for training such a rude 
thing as you were into proper obedience. You 
then pulled off your hat to every one you met in 
the street, like a bashful, great, awkward cub, 
as you were. But your great oaken cudgel, when 
you were a booby, became you much better than 
that dangling stick at your button, now you are 
a fop, that's fit for nothing except it hangs there 
to be ready for your master's hand when you are 
impertinent. 

Tom. Uncle Humphrey, you know my master 
scorns to strike his servants; you talk as if the 
world was now just as it was when my old mas- 
ter and you were in your youth — when you went 
to dinner because it was so much o'clock, when 
the great blow was given in the hall at the pan- 
try-door , and all the family came out of their 
holes, in such strange dresses, and formal faces, 
as you see in the pictures in our long gallery in 
the country. 

HumhreyV Why, you wild rogue ! 

Tom. You could not fall to your dinner, till 
a formal fellow, in a black gown, said something 
over the meat, as if the cook had not made it 
ready enough. 

Humphrey. Sirrah, who do you prate after? — 
Despising men of sacred characters! I hope you 
never heard my young master talk so like a young 
profligate ! 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 193 

Tom. Sir, I say you put upon me when I first 
came to town about being orderly, and the doc- 
trine of wearing shams to make linen last clean 
a fortnight, keeping my clothes fresh, and wearing 
a frock within doors. 

Humphrey. Sirrah, I gave you those lessons, 
because I supposed, at that time^ your master and 
you might have dined at home every day, and 
cost you nothing; then you might have made a. 
good family servant; but the gang you have fre- 
quented since at chocorate-houses and taverns, in 
a continual round of noise and extravagance — 

Tom. I don't know what you heavy inmates 
call noise and extravagance; but we gentlemen, 
who are well fed, and cut a figure, sir, think it 
a fine life, and that we must be very pretty fel- 
lows, who are kept only to be looked at. 

Humphrey. Very well, sir — I hope the fashion 
of being wild and extravagant, despising of de- 
cency and order, is almost at an end, since it is 
arrived at persons of your quality. 

Tom. Master Humphrey, ha, ha! you were an 
unhappy lad to be sent up to town in such queer 
days as you were. Why now, sir, the lackies are 
the men of pleasure of the age ; the top game- 
sters ; and many a laced coat about town, have 
had their education in our party-coloured regiment. 
We are false lovers , have a taste for music, bil- 
lets-doux, dress, politics and love; and when we 
are weary of this wicked town, and have a mind 
to reform, we whip into our master's wigs and 
linen, and marry fortunes, 

Humphrey. Hey day ! 

Tom. Nay, sir, our order is carried up to the 

25 



194 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

highest dignities and distinctions ; step but into the 
Painted-Chamber — and, by our titles, you'd take 
us all for men of quality — then, again, come down 
to the Court of Requests , and you shall see us 
all laying our broken heads together, for the na- 
tion; and though we never carry a question ne- 
mine contradicente, yet this I can say with a safe 
conscience (and I wish every gentleman of our 
cloth could lay his hand upon his heart, and say 
the same), that I never took so much as a single 
mug of beer for my vote in all my life. 

Humphrey. Sirrah, there is no enduring your 
extravagance; I'll hear you prate no longer: I 
wanted to see you to enquire how things go with 
your master, as far as you understand them: I 
suppose he knows he is to be married to-day? 

Tom. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed as 
gay as the sun : but between you and 1, my dear 
fellow! he has a very heavy heart under all that 
gaiety. As soon as he was dressed, I retired, 
but overheard him sigh in the most heavy manner. 
He walked thoughtfully to and fro in the room, 
then went into his closet: when he came out, 
he gave me this for his mistress , whose maid you 
know — 

Humphrey. Is passionately fond of your line 
person. 

Tom. The poor fool is so tender, and loves to 
hear me. talk of the world, and the plays, operas, 
and ridottoes for the winter; the parks and Bell- 
size for our summer diversions; and «lard!» says 
she, «you are so wild; but you have a world of 
humour. » 

Humphrey. Coxcomb ! Well, but why don't you 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 195 

run with your master's letter to Miss Lucinda, as 
he ordered you. 

Tom. Because Miss Lucinda is not so easily 
come at as you think. 

Humphrey. Not easily come at! Why, sir, are 
not her father and my old master agreed, that 
she and Mr. Beyil are to be one flesh before to- 
morrow morning. 

Tom. It's no matter for that: her mother, Mrs. 
Sealand , it seems , has not agreed to it ; and you 
must know, Mr. Humphrey, that, in that family, 
the grey mare is the better horse. 

Humphrey. What dost thou mean? 

Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pretends to 
have a will of her own, and has provided a re- 
lation of hers, a stiff starched philosopher, and a 
wise fool, for her daughter; for which reason, for 
these ten days past, she has suffered no message 
or letter from my master to come near her. 

Humphrey. And where had you this intelli- 
gence ? 

Tom. From a foolish fond soul, that can keep 
nothing from me— one that will deliver this let- 
ter, too, if she is rightly managed. 

Humphrey. What! her pretty handmaid, Mrs. 
Phillis? ' 

Tom. Even she, sir. This is the very hour, 
you know, she usually comes hither, under pre- 
tence of a visit to our housekeeper, forsooth , but 
in reality to have a glance at — 

Humphrey. Your sweet face, I warrant you. 

Tom. Nothing else in nature. You must know 
I love to fret and teaze the little thing. 



196 SEXECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Humphrey. What will this world come to? 

Tom. I met her this morning in a new cloak 
and petticoat, not a bit the worse for her lady's 
wearing; and she has always new thoughts and 
new airs with new clothes — then, she never fails 
to steal some glance or gesture from every visitant 
at their house, and is, indeed, the whole town of 
coquettes at second hand. But here she comes ; 
in one motion she speaks and describes herself 
better than all the words in the world can. 

Humphrey. Then I hope, dear sir ! when your 
own affair is over, you will be so good as to mind 
your master's with her. 

Tom. Dear Humphrey! you know my master 
is my friend, and those are people I never for- 
get— 

Humphrey. Sauciness itself! but Til leave you 
to do your best for him. 

Steele. 



SCENE FROM THE WEST INDIAN. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

STOCKWELL, a Merchant. 
BELCOUR, the West Indian. 
CAPTAIN DUDLEY, a Half-pay Officer 



SCENE I. 

STOCKWELL and BELCOUR. 

Stockwekl. Mr. Belcour, I am rejoiced to see 
you; you are welcome to England I 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 197 

Belcour. I thank you heartily, good Mr. Stock- 
well; you and I have long conversed at a dis- 
tance; now we are met; and the pleasure this 
meeting gives me, amply compensates for the pe- 
rils I have run through in accomplishing it, 

Stockwell. What perils, Mr. Belcour? I could 
not have thought you would have made a bad pas- 
sage at this time of year. 

Belcour. Nor did we : courier like , we came 
sporting to your shores , upon the pinions of 
the swiftest gales that ever blew; 'tis upon Eng- 
lish ground all my difficulties have arisen; 'tis the 
passage from the river side I complain of. 

Stockwell. Ay, indeed! what obstructions can 
you have met with between this and the river 
side? 

Belcour. Innumerable ! Your town is as full 
of defiles as the island of Corsica, and I believe 
they are as obstinately defended; so much hurry, 
bustle, and confusion on your quays; so many 
sugar-casks, porter-butts, and common-councilmen 
in your streets, that unless a man marched with 
artillery in his front, 'tis more than the labour of 
Hercules can effect, to make any tolerable way 
through your town. 

Stockwell. I am sorry you have been so in- 
commoded. 

Belcour. Why, faith 'twas all my own fault; 
accustomed to a land of slaves, and out of pa- 
tience with the whole tribe of custom-house ex- 
tortioners, boat-men, tide-waiters and water-bailiffs,, 
that beset me on all sides, worse than a swarm 
of musquitoes, I proceeded a little too roughly to 
brush them away with my rattan ; the sturdy 



198 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

rogues took this in dudgeon, and beginning to rebel, 
the mob chose different sides, and a furious scuffle 
ensued 5 in the course of which , my person and 
apparel suffered so much, that I was obliged to 
step into the first tavern to refit, before I could 
make my approaches in any decent trim. 

Stockwell. Well, Mr. Belcour, 'tis a rough 
sample you have had of my countrymen's spirit; 
but I trust, you will not think the worse of them 
for it. 

Belcour. Not at all, not at all! I like them 
the better. Was I only a visitor, I might, per- 
haps, wish them a little more tractable; but, as 
a fellow-subject, and a sharer in their freedom, 
I applaud their spirit, though I feel the effects 
of it in every bone of my skin. Well, Mr. Stock- 
well, here I am in England; at the fountain head 
of pleasure, in the land of beauty, of arts, and 
elegancies. My happy stars have given me a good 
estate, and the conspiring winds have blown me 
hither to spend it. 

Stockwell. To use it, not to waste it, I should 
hope; to treat it, Mr. Belcour, not as a vassal, 
over whom you have a wanton and despotic pow- 
er; but as a subject, which you are bound to 
govern, with a temperate and restrained authority. 

Belcour. True, sir, most truly said; mine's a 
commission , not a right ; I am the offspring of 
distress, and every child of sorrow is my brother; 
while I have hands to hold , therefore , I will 
hold them open to mankind; but, sir, my pas- 
sions are my masters ; they take me where they 
will ; and oftentimes they leave to reason and to 
virtue nothing but my wishes and my sighs. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 199 

Stock well. Come, come, the man who can 
accuse, corrects himself. 

Belcour. Ah! that's an office I am weary of; 
I wish I had a friend would take it up. I would 
to heaven you had leisure for the employ ; but 
did you drive a trade to the four corners of the 
world, you would not find the task so toilsome as 
to keep me free from faults. 

Stockwell. Well, I am not discouraged; this 
candour tells me I should not have the fault of 
self-conceit to combat; that, at least, is not amongst 
the number. 

Belcour. No; if I knew that man on earth 
who thought more humbly of me than I do of 
myself, I would take up his opinion, and forego 
my own. 

Stockwell. And were I to choose a pupil, it 
should be one of your complexion ; so if you'll 
come along with me, we'll agree upon your ad- 
mission, and enter on a course of lectures di- 
rectly. 

Belcour. With all my heart. 



SCENE II. 

CAPTAIN DUDLEY and BELCOUR. 

Dudley. Have you any commands for me, sir. 

Belcour. Your name is Dudley, sir? 

Dudley. It is. 

Belcour. You command a company, I think, 
Captain Dudley? 

Dudley. I did, I am now upon half-pay. 



200 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Belcour. You have served some time? 

Dudley. A pretty many years; long enough to 
see some people of more merit, and better inte- 
rest than myself, made general officers. 

Belcour. Their merit I may have some doubt 
of; their interest I can readily give credit to; 
there is little promotion to be looked for, in your 
profession _, I believe, without friends, Captain. 

Dudley. I believe so too; have you any other 
business with me, may I ask? 

Belcour. Your patience for a moment. I was 
informed you were about to join your regiment 
in distant quarters abroad. 

Dudley. I have been soliciting an exchange to 
a company on full pay, quartered at St. -James's 
fort, in Senegambia; but, I'm afraid, I must drop 
the undertaking. 

Belcour. Why so, pray! 

Dudley. Why so, sir? Tis a home question 
for a perfect stranger to put; there is something 
very particular in all this. 

Belcour. If it is not impertinent, sir, allow 
me to ask you what reason you have for despair- 
ing of success. 

Dudley. Why, really, sir, mine is an obvious 
reason for a soldier to have — want of money; 
simply that. 

Belcour. May I heg to know the sum you have 
occasion for? 

Dudley. Truly, sir, I cannot tell you on a sud- 
den; nor is it, I suppose, of any great consequence 
to you to be informed: but I should guess, in the 
gross, that two hundred pounds would serve. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 201 

Belcour. And do you find a difficulty in rais- 
ing that sum upon your pay? 'Tis done every day. 

Dudley. The nature of the climate makes it 
difficult : I can get no one to insure my life. 

Belcour. Oh ! that's a circumstance may make 
for you, as well as against; in short, Captain Dud- 
ley , it so happens that I can command the sum 
of two hundred pounds: seek no further; I'll ac- 
commodate you with it upon easy terms. 

Dudley. Sir! Do I understand you rightly? 
1 beg your pardon ; but am I to believe that you 
are in earnest? 

Belcour. What is your surprise? Is it an un- 
common thing for a gentleman to speak truth? 
Or is it incredible that one fellow-creature should 
assist another? 

Dudley. I ask your pardon — May I he^ to 
know to whom? Do you propose this in the way 
of business? 

Belcour. Entirely: I have no other business 
on earth. 

Dudley. Indeed! You are not a broker, I'm per- 
suaded. 

Belcour. I am not. 

Dudley. Nor an army agent, I think? 

Belcour. I hope you will not think the worse 
of me for being neither; in short, sir, if you will 
peruse this paper, it will explain to you who I 
am, and upon what terms I act; while you read 
it, I will step homeland fetch the money: and 
we will conclude the bargain without loss of time. 
In the mean while, good day to you. 

(Exit hastily.) 

Dudley. Humph ! There's something very odd 
in all this : let me see what we've got here. — 

26 



202 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 



This paper is to tell me who he is, and what are 
his terms : in the name of wonder why has he 
sealed it? Hey-day! What's here? Two hank- 
notes of a hundred each ! I can't comprehend what 
this means. Hold, here's a writing; perhaps that 
will show me. « Accept this trifle; pursue your 
fortune, and prosper. » Am I in a dream ? Is this 
a reality? 

Cumberland. 



SCENE FROM THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 

STERLING and SIR JOHN MELVIL. 

Sir John. After having carried the negociations 
between our families so great a length; after hav- 
ing so readily assented to all your proposals, as 
well as received so many instances of your cheer- 
ful compliance with the demands made on our 
part, I am extremely concerned, Mr. Sterling, to 
he the involuntary cause of any uneasiness. 

Sterling. Uneasiness ! what uneasiness ? - Where 
business is transacted as it ought to be , and the 
parties understand one another, there can be no 
uneasiness. You agree,, on such and such condi- 
tions, to receive my daughter for a wife; on the 
same conditions I agree to receive you as a son- 
in-law; and as to all the rest, it follows of course, 
you know, as regularly as the payment of a bill 
after acceptance. 

Sir John. Pardon me, sir; more uneasiness has 
arisen than you are aware of. I am myself, at 
this instant, in a state of inexpressible embarrass- 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES- 203 

ment. Miss Sterling, I know, is extremely discon- 
certed too; and unless you will oblige me with 
the assistance of your friendship, I foresee the 
speedv progress of discontent and animosity through 
the whole family. 

Sterling. What the deuce is all this? I don't 
understand a single syllable. 

Sir John. In one word_, then — it will be ab- 
solutely impossible for me to fulfil my engagements 
in regard to Miss Sterling. 

Sterling. How , Sir John ! Do you mean to 
put an affront upon my family ? What , refuse 
to— • 

Sir John. Be assured, sir, that I neither mean 
to affront nor forsake your family. My only fear 
is,, that you should desert me; for the whole hap- 
piness of my life depends on my being connected 
with your family, by the nearest and tenderest 
ties in the world. 

Sterling. Why, did you not tell me, but a 
moment ago, that it was absolutely impossible for 
you to marry my daughter? 

Sir John. True. — But you have another daughter, 
sir — 

Sterling. Well ! 

Sir John. Who has obtained the most absolute 
dominion over my heart. I have already declared 
my passion to her; nay, Miss Sterling herself is 
also apprised of it; and if you will but give a 
sanction to my present addresses, the uncommon 
merit of Miss Sterling will no doubt recommend 
her to a person of equal, if not superior, rank to 
myself, and our families may still be allied by my 
union with Miss Fanny. 

Sterling. Mighty fine, truly ! Why, what the 



204 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

plague do you make of us, Sir John! Do you 
come to market for my daughters , like servants 
at a statute fair? Do you think that I will suffer 
you, or any man in the world, to come into my 
house, like the grand seignior, and throw the 
handkerchief, first to one, and then to t'other, 
just as he pleases? Do you think I drive a kind 
of African slave-trade with them, and —■ — 

Sir John. A moment's patience, sir! Nothing 
hut the excess of my passion for Miss Fanny should 
have induced me to take any step that had the 
least appearance of disrespect to any part of your 
family, and even now I am desirous to atone for 
my transgression, hy making the most adequate 
compensation that is in my power. 

Sterling. Compensation ! what compensation 
can you possibly make, in such a case as this, Sir 
John? 

Sir John. Come, come, Mr. Sterling, I know 
you to be a man of sense, a man of business, a 
man of the world. I'll deal frankly with you, 
and you shall see that I don't desire a change of 
measures for my own gratification , without en- 
deavouring to make it advantageous to you. 

Sterling. What advantage can your inconstancy 
be to me, Sir John ? 

Sir John. Fll tell you, sir. You know that by 
the articles at present subsisting between us, on 
the day of my marriage with Miss Sterling, you 
agree to pay down the gross sum of eighty thou- 
sand pounds. 

Sterling. Well. 

Sir John. Now, if you will but consent to my 
waiving that marriage — 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 205 

Sterling. I agree to your waiving that marriage? 
Impossible j Sir John. 

Sir John. I hope not, sir^ as, on my part, 
I will agree to waive my right to thirty thou- 
sand pounds of the fortune I was to receive with 
her. 

Sterling. Thirty thousand, d'ye say? 

Sir John. Yes, sir; and accept of Miss Fanny 
with fifty thousand, instead of fourscore. 

Sterling. Fifty thousand. (Pausing.) 

Sir John_, Instead of fourscore. 

Sterling. Why — why, there may be something 
in that. Let me see. Fanny with fifty thousand 
pounds, instead of Betsey with fourscore. But how 
can this be, Sir John? for you know I am to pay 
this money into the hands of my Lord Ogleby, 
who, I believe, between you and me, Sir John, 
is not overstocked with ready money at present; 
and threescore thousand of it, you know, is to go 
to pay off the present incumbrances on the estate, 
Sir John? 

Sir John. That objection is easily obviated. 
Ten of the twenty thousand, which would remain 
as a surplus of the fourscore, after paying off the 
mortgage, was intended by his lordship for my 
use, that we might set off, with some eclat, on 
our marriage, and the other ten for his own. Ten 
thousand pounds, therefore, I shall be able to pay 
you immediately , and for the remaining twenty 
thousand, you shall have a mortgage on that part 
of the estate which is to be made over to me, 
with whatever security you shall require for the 
regular payment of the interest, till the principal 
is duly discharged. 

Sterling. Why — to do you justice, Sir John, 



206 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

there is something fair and open in your proposal; 
and since I find you do not mean to put an affront 
upon the family — 

Sir John. Nothing was ever further from my 
thoughts, Mr. Sterling. — And after all, the whole 
affair is nothing extraordinary — such things hap- 
pen every day; and as the world has only heard 
generally of a treaty between the families, when 
this marriage takes place, nobody will be the wiser, 
if we have but discretion enough to keep our own 
counsel. 

Sterling. True, true; and since you only trans- 
fer from one girl to the other, it is no more than 
transferring so much stock, you know. 

Sir John. The very thing ! 

Sterling. Odso ! I had quite forgot — we are 
reckoning without our host here — there is another 
difficulty — 

Sir John. You alarm me. — What can that be? 

Sterling. I can't stir a step in this business 
without consulting my sister Heidelberg. — The 
family has very great expectations from her, and 
we must not give her any offence. 

Sir John. But if you come into this measure, 
surely she will be so kind as to consent — 

Sterling. I don't know that ; Betsey is her 
darling, and I can't tell how she may resent any 
slight that seems to be offered to her favourite 
niece. However, I'll do the best I can for you. 
You shall go and break the matter to her first, 
and by the time I suppose that your rhetoric has 
prevailed on her to listen to reason, I will step 
in to reinforce your arguments. 

Sir John. I'll fly to her immediately — you pro- 
mise me your assistance. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 207 

Sterling. I do. 

Sm John. Ten thousand thanks for it! And 
now success attend me! (Going.) 

Sterling. Harkye, Sir John ! (Sir John returns.) 

not a word of the thirty thousand to my sister, 
Sir John. 

Sir John. 0, I am dumb, I am dumb, sir. 

(Going.) .-"'.-■ 

Sterling. You'll remember it is thirty thou- 
sand ? 

Sir John. To be sure I do. 

Sterling. But, Sir John! One thing more. 
(Sir John returns.) My lord must know nothing 
of this stroke of friendship between us* 

Sir John. Not for the world. Let me alone ! 
(Offering to go.) 

Sterling. (Holding him.) And when every 
thing is agreed, we must give each other a bond 
to be held fast to the bargain. 

Sir John. To be sure. A bond, by all means! 
A bond or whatever you please. (Exit hastily.) 

Sterling. I should have thought of more con- 
ditions — he's in a humour to give me every 
thing. — Why , what mere children are your fel- 
lows of quality; they cry for a plaything one mi- 
nute , and throw it by ( the next ! As changeable 
as the weather, and as uncertain as the stocks. 
Special fellows to drive a bargain ! and yet they 
are to take care of the interest of the nation, 
truly ! Here does this whirligig man of fashion 
offer to give up thirty thousand pounds in hard 
money , with as much indifference as if it Avas a 
china orange. By this mortgage I shall have a 
hold on his terra-Jirma; and if he wants more 
money, as he certainly will, let him have children 



208 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

or no, I shall have his whole estate in a net for 
the benefit of my family. — Well, thus it is, that 
the children of citizens who have acquired for- 
tunes, prove persons of fashion; and thus it is, 
that persons of fashion who have ruined their 
fortunes, reduce the next generation to cits. 



SCENES FROM THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

HONEYWOOD, the Good-natured Man. 
JARVIS, his Servant, 

CROAKER, Honey woods Friend, always complaining. 
BUTLER to Honeywood. 



SCENE L 
Mr. HONEYWOOD and JARVIS. 

Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from 
my friends this morning? 

Jarvis. You have no friends. 

Honeywood. Well, from my acquaintance then. 

Jarvis. (Pulls out bills.) A few of our usual 
cards of compliment, that's all. This bill from 
your tailor, this from your mercer, and this from 
the little broker in Crooked lane; he says he has 
been at a great deal of trouble to get back the 
money you borrowed. 

Honeywood. That I don't know , but I am sure 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 209 

we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him 
to lend it. 

Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 

Honey wood. Then he has lost a very good 
thing. 

Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were send- 
ing to the poor gentleman and his children in 
the Fleet prison. I believe that would stop his 
mouth for a while at least. 

Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill 
their mouths in the mean time? Must I be cruel 
because he happens to be importunate,* and to 
relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable 
distress. 

Jarvis. 'Sdeath, sir, the question now is how 
to relieve yourself — yourself! Hav'n^t I reason to 
be out of my senses, when I see things going at 
sixes and sevens? 

Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have 
for being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow 
that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in 
mine. 

Jarvis. You're the only man alive in your 
present situation that could do so. Every thing 
upon the waste. There's Miss Richland and her 
fine fortune gone already -, and upon the point of 
being given to your rival. 

Honeywood. I'm no mans rival. 

Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to dis- 
inherit you; your own fortune almost spent; 
and nothing but pressing creditors, false friends, 
and a pack of drunken servants that your kindness 
has made unlit for any other family. 

Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion 
for being in mine. 

'21 



210 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Jarvis. So , what will you have done with 
him that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry? 
In the fact; I caught him in the fact. 

Honeywood. In the fact! If so , I really think 
that we should pay him his wages , and turn him 
off. 

Jarvis. Yes, he shall be turned off, the dog; 
we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest 
of the family. 

Honeywood. No, Jarvis; it's enough that we 
have lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to 
it the loss of a fellow-creature. 

Jarvis. Well, here was the footman just now 
to complain of the butler; he says he does most 
work, and ought to have most wages. 

Honeywood. That's but just; though perhaps 
here comes the butler to complain of the footman. 

Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from 
the scullion to the privy counsellor. If they have 
a bad master, they keep quarrelling Avith him; 
if they have a good master , they keep quarrelling 
with one another. 

Enter BUTLER. 

Butler. Your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. 

Honeywood. Why didn't you show him up ? 

(Exit Butler.) 

Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that fa- 
mily in this house from morning till night. He 
comes on the old affair, I suppose; the match 
between his son, who is just returned from Paris, 
and Miss Richland, the young lady he's guardian 
to. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 211 

Honeywood. Perhaps so; Mr. Croaker, know- 
ing my friendship for the young lady, has got 
it into his head that I can persuade her to what 
I please. 

Jarvis. Ah! if you loved yourself but half as 
well as she loves you, we should soon see a mar- 
riage that would set all things to rights again. 

Honeywood. Love me! sure, Jarvis you dream. 
No; that she is the most lovely woman that ever 
warmed the human heart ^ I own ; but never let 
me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, 
by a connexion with one so unworthy her merits 
as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve 
her, even in spite of my wishes; and to secure 
her happiness, though it destroys my own. 

Jarvis. Was ever the like? I want patience. 

Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could 
obtain Miss Richland's consent, do you think I 
could succeed with her guardian , or Mrs. Croaker, 
his wife? who, though both very fine in their 
way, are yet a little opposite in their dispositions, 
you know. 

Jarvis. Opposite enough, heaven knows; the 
very reverse of each other; she, all laugh and no 
joke; he, always complaining and never sorrowful; 
a fretful , poor soul , that has a new distress for 
every hour in the four and twenty. 

Honeywood. Hush ! hush ! he's coming up , 
he'll hear you. 

Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing bell. 
Honeywood. Well, well, go, do. 

Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; 
a coffin and cross-bones; a bundle of rue;a sprig 
of deadly night-shade; a — 

(Honeywood stops his mouth and pushes him. off.) 



212 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Honeywood. I must own my old monitor is not 
entirely wrong. There is something in my friend 
Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me. His 
very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his 
appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits 
than an undertaker's shop. 

Enter CROAKER. 

Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfaction — 

Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honey- 
wood, and many of them. How is this? You look 
most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope 
this weather does not affect your spirits. To be 
sure if this weather continues — I say nothing — 
hut God send we be ail better this day three 
months. 

Honeywood. I heartily concur in the wish, 
though, I own , not in your apprehensions. 

Croaker. May be not! Indeed, what signifies 
what weather we have in a country going to ruin 
like ours ? Then so many foreigners , that Fm 
afraid for our wives and daughters. 

Honeywood. I have no apprehension for the 
ladies, I assure you. 

Croaker. May be not. And what signifies? The 
women in my time were good for something. I 
have seen a lady dressed from top to toe in her 
own manufactures formerly. But now-a-days , the 
deuce a thing of their own manufacture's about 
them , except their faces. 

Honeywood. But, however these faults may be 
practised abroad, you don't find them at home, 
either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Rich- 
land, 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 213 

Croaker. By-the-bye, my dear friend, I don't 
find this match between Miss Richland and my 
son much relished, either by one side or t'other. 

Honeywood. I thought otherwise. 

Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your 
fine serious advice to the young lady might go 
far: I know she has a very exalted opinion of 
your understanding. 

Honeywood. But would not that be usurping 
an authority that more properly belongs to your- 
self? 

Croaker. My dear friend, you know but lit- 
tle of my authority at home. People think , in- 
deed ^ because they see me come out in a mor- 
ning thus , with a pleasant face , and to make 
my friends merry , that all's well within. But 1 
have cares that would break a heart of stone. 
My wife has so encroached upon every one of 
my privileges, that I'm now no more than a 
mere lodger in my own house. 

Honeywood. But a little spirit exerted on 
your side might perhaps restore your authority. 

Croaker. No , though I had the spirit of a 
lion! I do rouse sometimes. But what then: al- 
ways haggling and haggling. A man is tired of 
getting the better, before his wife is tired of los- 
ing the victory. 

Honeywood. It's a melancholy consideration , 
indeed, that our chief comforts often produce our 
greatest anxieties, and that an encrease of our pos- 
sessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. m , 

Croaker. Ah ! my dear friend , these were the 
very words of poor Dick Doleful to me, not a 
week before he made away with himself. Indeed, 
Mr. Honeywood, I never see you but you put 



214 -SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES 

me in mind of poor dear Dick. — Ah! there was 
merit neglected for you ! and so true a friend ; 
we loved each other for thirty years, and yet he 
never asked me to lend him a single farthing. 

Honeywood. Pray what could induce him to 
commit so rash an action at last? 

Croaker. I don't know : some people were 
malicious enough to say, that it was keeping com- 
pany with me ; because we used to meet now 
and then , and open our hearts to each other. To 
be sure I loved to hear him talk, and he loved 
to hear me talk; poor dear Dick. He used to say 
that Croaker rhymed to joker; and so we used 
to laugh — poor Dick (Going to cry.) 

Honeywood. His fate affects me. 

Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable 
life, where we do nothing but eat and grow 
hungry , dress and undress , get up and lie down ; 
while reason , that should watch like a nurse by 
our side, falls as fast asleep as we do. 

Honeywood. Very true, sir; nothing can ex- 
ceed the vanity of our existence but the folly of 
our pursuits. We wept when we came into the 
world, and every day tells us why. 

Croaker. Ah , my dear friend, it is a perfect 
satisfaction to be miserable with you. My son 
Leontine shan't lose the benefit of such fine con- 
versation. I'll just step home for him. And what 
if I brought my last letter to the Gazetteer, on 
the encrease and progress of earthquakes? It will 
amuse us, I promise you, I there prove how the 
late earthquake is coming round to pay us ano- 
ther visit, from London to Lisbon, ^from Lisbon 
to the Canary Islands, from the Canary Islands 
to Palmyra , from Palmyra to Constantinople , and 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 215 

so from Constantinople back to London again. 
(Exit) 

Honeywood. Poor Croaker! I shall scarce re- 
cover my spirits these three days. Sure, to live 
upon such terms is worse than death itself. And 
yet when I consider my own situation , a broken 
fortune , a hopeless passion , friends in distress , 
with a wish , but not the power, to relieve them ; 
this is wretchedness. 

Goldsmith, 



SCENE FROM THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

SIR PERTINAX MACSYCOPHANT, EGERTON his SON. 

Sir Pertinax. Sir, I will not hear a word about 
it; — I insist upon it you are wrong — You should 
have paid your court to my lord , and not have 
scrupled swallowing a bumper or two— or twenty 
to oblige him ! 

Egerton. Sir, I did drink his toast in a bum- 
per. 

Sir Pertinax Yes, ybu did; but how? how? — 
Just as a child takes physic, with wry mouths, 
and sour faces, which my lord observed: then, 
to mend the matter, the moment that he and the 
colonel got into a drunken dispute about religion, 
you slily slunk away. 

Egerton. I thought, sir, it was time to go, 
when my lord insisted upon half-pint bumpers. 

Sir Pertinax. Sir, that was not levelled at 
you — but at the colonel, the captain, and the 



216 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

commissioner ; they all agreed that you and I 
should drink out of small glasses. 

Egerton. But, sir, I beg pardon-I did not choose 
to drink any more. 

Sir Pertinax. But, sir, I tell you there was 
a necessity for your drinking more at this parti- 
cular juncture. 

Egerton. A necessity; in what respect, sir? 

Sir Pertinax. Why^ sir, I have a certain point 
to carry, independent of the lawyers, with my 
lord, in this agreement of your marriage; about 
which I am afraid we shall have a warm dispute, 
and therefore I wanted your assistance in it. 

Egerton. But, how, sir, could my drinking 
contribute to assist you in your dispute? 

Sir Pertinax. Yes, sir, it would have contri- 
buted — it might have prevented it. 

Egerton. How so, sir? 

Sir Pertinax. Why, sir, my lord is proud of 
you for a son-in-law, and of your little French 
songs, your stories, and your bon-mots, when 
you are in the humour— and if you had but staid, 
and been a little jolly, and drunk half a score 
of bumpers with him, till he got a little tipsey, 
I am sure when we had him in that tipsey mood, 
we might have settled the point amongst ourselves, 
before the lawyers came ; but now , sir , I do not 
know what will be the consequence. 

Egerton. But when a man is intoxicated, would 
that have been a seasonable time to settle busi- 
ness, sir? 

Sir Pertinax. The most seasonable, sir, the 
most seasonable; for, sir, when my lord is in 
his cups , his suspicion and judgment are both 
asleep, and his heart is all jollity, fun, and 



SELECT SCENE9 OF COMEDIES. 2l7 

good fellowship — you may then mould him to any 
thing; and can there be a happier moment than 
that for a bargain , or to settle a dispute with a 
friend? What is it you shrug your shoulders at, sir? 

Egerton. At my own ignorance, sir: for I 
understand neither the philosophy nor morality of 
your doctrine. 

Sir Pertinax. I know you do not, sir: and 
what is worse, you never will understand it, as 
you go on. In one word, Charles, I nave often 
told you, and now I again tell you once for all, 
that every man should be a man of the world, 
and should understand the doctrine of pliability: 
for, sir, the manoeuvres of pliability are as necessary 
to rise in the world, as wrangling and logical 
subtility are to rise at the bar. Why, you see, sir^ 
I have acquired a noble fortune , a princely for- 
tune, and how do you think I have raised it? 

Egerton. Doubtless , sir, by your abilities. 

Sir Pertinax. Doubtless, sir, you are a block- 
head — no, sir, Fll tell you how I raised it; I 
raised it by bowing; by bowing sir. I never in 
my life could stand straight in the presence of 
a great man ; but always bowed, and bowed, and 
bowed, as it were by instinct. 

Egerton. How do you mean by instinct, sir? 

Sir Pertinax How do I mean by instinct? — 
why , sir , I mean by — by — by the instinct of in- 
terest, sir, which is the universal instinct of man- 
kind, sir: it is wonderful to think, what a cor- 
dial, what an amicable, nay, what an infallible 
influence, bowing has upon the pride and vanity 
of human nature; Charles, answer me sincerely, 
have you a mind to be convinced of the force of 
my doctrine , by example and demonstration ? 

28. 



218 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Egerton. Certainly, sir. 

Sir Pertinax. Then, sir, as the greatest favour 
I can confer upon you, I will give you a short 
sketch of the stages of my bowing ; as an excite- 
ment and a landmark for you to how by, and as 
an infallible nostrum for a man of the world to 
thrive in the world. 

Egerton. Sir, I shall be proud to profit by 
your experience. 

Sir Pertinax. Very well (They both sit down.) 
— and now, sir, you must remember, that your 
grandfather was a man whose penurious income 
of half-pay was the sum total of his fortune ; 
all my provision from him was a modicum of 
latin , some expertness in arithmetic, and a short 
system of worldly counsel , the chief ingredients 
of which were, a persevering industry, a rigid 
economy, a smooth tongue, a pliability of temper, 
and a constant attention to make every man well 
pleased with himself. 

Egerton. Very prudent advice, sir. 

Sir Pertinax. Therefore, sir_, 1 lay it before 
you. — Now, sir, with these materials, I set out , 
a rough, rawboned stripling from the north , to 
try my fortune in the south; and my first step 
into the world was a beggarly clerkship in Alex- 
ander Gordon's counting-house _, here in the city 
of London , which , you'll say , afforded but a 
barren sort of a prospect. 

Egerton. It was not a very fertile one , indeed, 
sir. 

Sir Pertinax. The reverse, the reverse. Well, 
sir, seeing myself in this unprofitable situation, I 
reflected deeply, I cast about my thoughts, and 
concluded, a matrimonial adventure, prudently 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 219 

conducted, would be the readiest way I couldfind 
for bettering my condition, and accordingly I set 
about it. Now, sir, in this pursuit — beauty — beau- 
Uj ah! beauty, often struck my eye, and played 
about my heart, and fluttered, and beat, and 
knocked, but no entrance did I ever give it; for 
I observed that beauty is generally a proud 3 vain, 
saucy, expensive sort of a commodity, 

Egerton. Very justly observed, sir. 

Sir Pertinax. And therefore, sir, I left it to 
prodigals and coxcombs, that could afford to pay 
for it, and in its stead , sir , — mark — I looked out 
for an ancient, well jointured, superannuated 
dowager : — a consumptive v toothless, phthisicky , 
wealthy widow — or a shrivelled, cadaverous, 
neglected piece of deformity, in the shape of a 
z — or in short, any thing, any thing, that had 
money; for that was the north-star of my affec- 
tion—Do you understand me, sir? Was not that 
right? 

Egerton. doubtless, doubtless, sir. 

Sir Pertinax. Now, sir, where do you think 
I went to look for this woman with money ?-not 
to court, nor to play-houses, or assemblies — no, 
I went to chapel, to th'ei anabaptist, independent, 
Bradleonian, Muggletonian meetings, to the mor- 
ning and evening service of churches and chapels 
of ease ; and to the midnight meetings conciliating 
love-feasts of the methcdists — and there at last, 
sir, I fell upon an old, rich, sour, slighted, 
musty maiden; that looked -ha! ha! ha! she looked 
just like a skeleton in a surgeon's glass-case: — 
now, sir, this miserable object was religiously 
angry with herself, and all the world; had no 
comfort but in a supernatural^ religious, enthu- 






220 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

siastic delirium; ha! ha! ha! she was mad, sir, 
—-mad as a bedlamite. 

Egerton. Not improbable , sir; there are num- 
bers of poor creatures in the same enthusiastic 
condition. 

Sir Pertinax. Oh!. numbers, numbers; now, sir, 
this poor, cracked, crazy creature, used to sing 
and sigh, and groan, and weep, and wail, and 
gnash her teeth constantly, morning and evening, 
at the Tabernacle. And as soon as I found she 
had money, I knelt down close by her, and sung, 
and sighed, and groaned as vehemently as she 
could do, for the life of her; aye, and turned up 
the whites of my eyes till the strings almost 
cracked again; I watched her attentively ; handed 
her to her chair; waited on her home; got most 
religiously intimate with her m a week; married 
her in a fortnight; buried her in a month ; touch- 
ed the cash; and with a suit of deep mourning, 
a sorrowful visage, and a joyful heart, I began 
the world again: and this, sir, was the first 
effectual bow I ever made to the vanity of human 
nature. Now, sir, do you understand this doctrine? 

Egerton. Perfectly well, sir. 

Sir Pertinax. My next bow, sir, was to your 
own mother, whom I ran away with from the 
boarding-school , by the interest of whose family 
I got a good place in the treasury; and my very 
next step was into parliament, which I entered 
with as ardent and determined an ambition as 
ever agitated the heart of Caesar himself. I bowed, 
and watched , ancl attended , and dangled upon the 
then great man, till I got his confidence — hah! 
got my share of the clothings the foraging, the 
contracts, the lottery tickets, and all the political 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 22l 

bonuses, till at length, sir, I became a much, 
wealthier man than one half of the golden calves 
I had been so long bowing to. (He rises , Egerton 
rises too.) And was not this bowing to some pur- 
pose, sir, ha? 

Egerton. It was, indeed, sir. 

Sir Pertinax. But are you convinced of the 
good effects, and of the utility of bowing? 

Egerton. Thoroughly, sir^ thoroughly. 

Sir Pertinax. It is infallible; but Charles, while 
I was thus bowing, and raising this princely for- 
tune, 1 met many heart-sores, and disappointments, 
from the want of literature, eloquence and other 
popular abilities; if I could but have spoken in 
the house, I should have done the deed in half 
the time; but the instant I opened my mouth 
there , they all fell a laughing at me; all which 
deficiencies , sir , I determined , at any expense , 
to have supplied by the polished education of a 
son, who, I hoped, would one day raise the house 
of Macsycophant to the highest pinnacle of minis- 
terial ambition: this, sir, is my plan I have; done 
my part of it ; nature has done hers ; you are 
popular; all parties like you ; and now, sir, it only 
remains for you to be directed, completion follows. 

Egerton. Your liberality, sir, in my education, 
and the judicious choice you made of the worthy 
gentleman to whose virtue and abilities you entrus- 
ted me, are obligations I ever shall remember 
with the deepest filial gratitude. 

Sir Pertinax. Very well, sir. 

Maklin. 



■^Z*i>§©s,<i^~ 



f\ 



222 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

SCENES FROM THE PROVOKED HUSBAND. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

LORD TOWNLY, the Provoked Husband. 
MANLY, his Friend. 
WILLIAMS, Lord Townlfs Servant. 
LADY TOWNLY, Lord Townlfs Wife. 
LADY GRACE, Lord Townlfs Sister. 
M- TRUSTY, Lady Townlfs Maid. 



SCENE I. 
LORD TOWNLY and LADY TOWNLY. 

Ladt Townly. Well, look you, my lord, I 
can bear it no longer, nothing still but about my 
faults. My faults! an agreeable subject, truly! 

Lord Townly. Why , madam , if you won't 
hear of them , how can I ever hope to see you 
mend them? 

Lady Townly. Why^ I don't intend to mend 
them — I can't mend them — you know I have tried 
to do it a hundred times — and it hurts me so — I 
can't bear it. 

Lord Townly. And I , madam, can't bear this 
daily licentious abuse of your time and character. 

Lady Townly. Abuse! Astonishing! when the 
universe knows I am never better company than 
when I am doing what I have a mind to. But 
to see this world! that men can never get over that 
silly spirit of contradiction! Why, but last Thursday 
now'^ — there you wisely amended one of my faults, 
as you call them — you insisted upon my not going 
to the masquerade — and pray what was the 
consequence? Was not I as cross as the deuce 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 



223 



all the night after? Was not I forced to get com- 
pany at home? And was it not almost three o'- 
clock this morning before I was able to come to 
myself again? And then the fault is not mended nei- 
ther — for, next time, I shall only have twice the 
inclination to go: so that all this mending, you 
see, is but darning old lace, to make it worse 
than it was before. 

Lord Townly. Well, the manner of women's 
living, of late, is insupportable: and one way or 
other — - 

Lady Townly. It's to be mended, I suppose — 
why, so it may! but then, my dear lord, you 
must give one time — and when things are at the 
worst you know, they may mend themselves , 
ha, ha! 

Lord Townly. Madam , I am not in a humour 
now to trifle. 

Lady Townly. Why then, my lord, one word 
of fair argument, to talk with you in your own 
way now. You complain of my late hours , and 
I of your early ones; so far we are even, you'll 
allow — but pray, which gives us the best figure 
in the eye of the world — my active , spirited three 
in the morning, or your dull, drowsy eleven at 
night? Now, I think one has the air of a woman 
of quality, and t'other of a plodding mechanic, 
that goes to bed betimes, that he may rise early 
to open his shop — Faugh! 

Lord Townly. Fie, fie, madam! is this your 
way of reasoning? 'tis time to wake you then — 
'tis not your ill hours alone that disturb me, but 
as often the ill company that occasions those ill 
hours. 

Lady Townly. Sure I don't understand you 
now, my lord; what ill company do I keep? 



224 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Lord Townly. Why, at best, women that 
lose their money, and men that win it. Then that 
unavoidable mixture with known rakes , concealed 
thieves, and sharpers in embroidery, or,— what 
to me is still more shocking, that herd of familiar, 
chattering, crop-eared coxcombs! 

Lady Townly . My, lord, I'll have you to 
know, I keep company with the politest people 
in town, and the assemblies I frequent are full 
of such. 

Lord Townly. So are the churches — now and 
then. 

Lady Townly. My friends frequent them too, 
as well as the assemblies. 

Lord ToWnly. Yes, and would do it oftener, 
if a groom of the chambers were allowed to fur- 
nish cards to the company. 

Lady Townly. I see what you drive at all 
this while; you would lay an imputation on my 
fame, to cover your avarice. I might take any 
pleasures, I find, that were not expensive. 

Lord Townly. Have a care, madam; the fol- 
lies of an ungoverned wife may make the wisest 
man uneasy; but 'tis his own fault if ever they 
render him contemptible. 

Lady Townly. My lord , my lord — you would 
make a woman mad ! 

Lord Townly. Madam y madam, you would 
make a man a fool ! 

Lady TowNLY r . If heaven has made you other- 
wise, that won't be in my power. 

Lord Townly. Whatever may be in your in- 
clination, madam, I'll prevent your making me a 
beggar at least. 

Lady Townly. A beggar; Croesus! I am out 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 225 

of patience! I won't come home till four to-mor- 
row morning. 

Lord Townly, That may be, madam; but I'll 
order the doors to be locked at twelve. 

Lady Townly. Then I won't come home till 
to-morrow night. 

Lord Townly. Then, madam, you shall never 
come home again. (Exit.) 

Lady Townly. What does he mean ? I never 
heard such a word from him in my life before! 
There's something that I don't see at the bottom 
of all this — But his head's always upon some im- 
practicable scheme or other, so I won't trouble 
mine any longer about him. 



SCENE II. 
LADY GRACE and LADY TOWNLY. 

Lady Townly. Oh, my dear Lady Grace! how 
could you leave me so unmercifully alone , all 
this while? 

Lady Grace. I thought my lord had been with 
you. ( 

Lady Townly. Why yes; and therefore I want- 
ed your relief; for he has been in such a fluster 
here — 

Lady Grace. Bless me! for what? 

Lady Townly. Only our usual breakfast! we 
have each of us had our dish of matrimonial 
comfort this morning — we have been charming 
company. 

Lady Grace. I am mighty glad of it! sure it 
must be a vast happiness when a man and wo- 

29 



226 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

man can give themselves the same turn of con- 
versation ! 

Lady Townly. Oh , the prettiest thing in the 
world! 

Lady Grace. Now I should be afraid, that 
where two people are every day together so, they 
must often be in want of something to talk upon. 

Lady Townly. Oh! my dear, you are the most 
mistaken in the world. Married people have things to 
talk of, child, that never enter into the imagination 
of others. Why, here's my lord and I, now; we 
have not been married above two short years, you 
know, and we have already eight or ten things 
constantly in bank, that whenever we want com- 
pany _, we can take up any one of them for two 
hours together, and the subject never the flatter; 
nay, if we have occasion for it, it will be as 
fresh next day too, as it was the first hour it 
entertained us. 

Lady Grace. Certainly, that must be vastly 
pretty I 

Lady Townly. Oh! there's no life like it! Why, 
t'other day, for example, when you dined abroad, 
my lord and I, after a pretty, cheerful, tete-a-tete 
meal, sate us down by the fire-side, in an easy, 
indolent, pick-tooth way, for about a quarter of 
an hour , as if we had not thought of any other's 
being in the room. At last, stretching himself 
and yawning — «My dear,» says he, «aw — you 
came home very late last night. » — « 'Twas but 
just turned of two,» says I. — «I was in bed — 
aw — by eleven,» says he. — «So you are every 
night,)) says I. — «Well,» says he, «X am amazed 
you can sit up so late. » — «How can you be 
amazed,» says I, «at a thing that happens so 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 2£7 

often?» Upon which we entered into a conver- 
sation, and though this is a point which has enter- 
tained us above fifty times already , we always find 
so many pretty new things to say upon it , that I 
believe, in my soul, it will last as long as we 
live. 

Lady Grace. But pray, in such sort of family 
dialogues (though extremely well for passing the 
time), don't there now and then enter some little 
witty sort of bitterness? 

Lady Townly. Oh, yes! which does not do 
amiss at all. A smart repartee _, with a zest of 
recrimination at the head of it, makes the pret- 
tiest sherbet! Ay, ay, if we did not mix a little 
of the acid with it, a matrimonial society would 
be too delightful; there would be no bearing it. 

Lady Grace. Well, certainly, you have the most 
elegant taste — 

Lady Townly. Though _, to tell the truth, my 
dear, I rather think we squeezed a little too much 
lemon into it this bout ; for it grew so sour at 
last, that — I think — I think I almost told him 
he was a fool — and he again — talked something 
oddly of turning me out of doors. 

Lady Grace. Oh! have a care of that! 

Lady Townly. Nay, if he should, I may thank 
my own father for it. But to be serious, my 
dear, what would you really have a woman do 
in my case? 

Lady Grace. Why, if I had a sober husband, 
as you have, I would make myself the happiest 
wife in the world, by being as sober as he. 

Lady Townly. Oh, you wicked thing! how 
can you teaze one at this rate , when you know 
that he is so very sober, that except giving me 



228 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

money, there is not one thing in the world he 
can do to please me. And I, at the same time, 
partly by nature, and partly, perhaps, by keeping 
the best company, do, with my soul, love almost 
every thing he hates. I dote upon assemblies — 
my heart bounds at a ball — and at an opera — I 
expire. Then I love play to distraction! — cards 
enchant me, and dice put me out of my little 
wits. Dear, dear hazard! — Oh, what a flow of 
spirits it gives one ! — Do you never play at hazard, 
child? 

Lady Grace, Oh, never. I don't think it sits 
well upon women; there's something so mascu- 
line, so much the air of a rake in it! You see 
how it makes the men swear and curse; and 
when a woman is thrown into the same passion, 
why — 

Lady Townly . That's very true; one is a little 
put to it, sometimes, not to make use of the same 
words to express it. 

Lady Grace. Well, and upon ill luck, pray 
what words are you really forced to make use of? 

Lady Townly. Why, upon a very hard case 
indeed, when a sad wrong word is just rising to 
one's tongue's end, I give a great gulp, and swal- 
low it. 

Lady Grace. Well , and is not that enough to 
make you forswear play, as long as you live? 

Lady Townly. Oh, yes! I have forsworn it. 

Lady Grace. Seriously? 

Lady Townly. Solemnly! a thousand times; 
hut then one is constantly forsworn. 

Lady Grace. And how can you answer that? 

Lady Townly. My dear, what we say when 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 229 

we are losers, we look upon to be no more bind- 
ing than a lover's oath , or a great man's pro- 
mise. But I beg pardon, child., I should not lead 
you so far into the world; you are a prude^ and 
design to live soberly. 

Lady Grace. Why, I confess, my nature and 
my education do , in a good degree , incline me 
that way. 

Lady Townly. Well, how a woman of spirit 
(for you don't want that, child) can dream of liv- 
ing soberly, is to me inconceivable! for you will 
marry, I suppose. 

Lady Grace. I can't tell but I may. 

Lady Townly. And won't you live in town? 

Lady Grace. Half the year I should like it 
very well. 

Lady Townly. My stars! and you would real- 
ly live in London half the year, to be sober 
in it? 

Lady Grace. Why not? 

Lady Townly. Why, can't you as well go and 
be sober in the countrv? 

Lady Grace. So I would, t'other half year. 

Lady Townly. And pray, what comfortable 
scheme of life would you form, now, for your 
summer and winter sober entertainments! 

Lady Grace. A scheme that, I think, might 
very well content us. 

Lady Townly. Oh! of all things,, let's hear it. 

Lady Grace. Why, in summer I could pass 
my leisure hours in reading, walking by a canal, 
or sitting at the end of it, under a great tree;, 
in dressing, dining, chatting with an agreeable 
friend; perhaps hearing a little music, taking a 



230 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 



cup of tea, or a game at cards, soberly; managing 
my family, looking into its accounts: playing with 
my children, if I had any, or in a thousand other 
innocent amusements , soberly — and possibly by 
these means, I might induce my husband to be as 
sober as myself. 

Lady Townly. Well_, my dear, thou art an 
astonishing creature ! for sure such primitive, an- 
tediluvian notions of life have not been in any 
head these thousand years. Under a great tree! 
Oh, my soul ! But I beg we may have the sober 
town scheme too, for I am charmed with the 
country one. 

Lady Grace. You shall, and I'll try to stick to 
my sobriety there too. 

Lady Townly. Well, though I'm sure it will 
give me the vapours, I must hear it, however. 

Lady Grace. Why then, for fear of your faint- 
ing, madam, I will first so far come into the 
fashion, that I would never be dressed out of 
it — but still it should be, soberly; for I can't think 
it any disgrace to a woman of my private for- 
tune, not to wear her lace as fine as the wedding- 
suit of a first duchess. Though there is one ex- 
travagance I would venture to come up to. 

Lady Townly. Ay, now for it. 

Lady Grace. I would every day be as neat as 
a bride. 

Lady Townly. Why, the men say that's a great 
step to be made one. Well, now you are dressed, 
pray let's see to what purpose. 

Lady Grace. I would visit — that is, my real 
friends; but as little for form as possible. I would 
go to court; sometimes to an assembly; nay, play 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 231 

at quadrille — soberly. I would see all the good 
plays; and because 'tis the fashion, now and then 
an opera; but I would not expire there, for fear 
I should never go again; and lastly, I can't say, 
but for curiosity, if I liked my company,, I might 
be drawn in once to a masquerade; and this, I 
think, is as far as any woman can go — soberly. 

Lady Townly. Well , if it had not been for 
this last piece of sobriety, I was just going to call 
for some surfeit-water. 

Lady Grace. Why, don't you think, with the 
further aid of breakfasting , dining , and taking 
the air, supping ^ sleeping, not to say a word of 
devotion , the four-and-twenty hours might roll 
over in a tolerable manner? 

Lady Townly. Tolerable ! deplorable ! why , 
child, all you propose is but to endure life; now 
I want to enjoy it. However , you must excuse 
me; you know my time is so precious — 

Lady Grace. That I beg I may not hinder your 
least enjoyment of it. 

Lady Townly. You will call on me at Lady 
Revel's? 

Lady Grace. Certainly. 

Lady Townly. But 1 am so afraid it will break 
into your scheme, my dear. 

Lady Grace. When it does, I will — soberly 
break from you. 

Lady Townly. Why, then, till we meet again, 
dear sister, I wish you all tolerable happiness. 



232 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

SCENE III. 

A DRESSING ROOM. 

LADY TOWNLY discovered as just up; 
Mrs. TRUSTY waiting. 

Mrs. Trusty. Dear madam, what should make 
your ladyship so ill? 

Lady Townly. How is it possible to be well, 
where one is killed for want of sleep? 

Mrs. Trusty. Dear me! it was so long before 
you rang; madam, I was in hopes your ladyship 
had been finely composed. 

Lady Townly. Composed; why, I have been 
in an inn here; this house is worse than an inn 
with ten stage-coaches; what between my lord's 
impertinent people of business in a morning, and 
the intolerable thick shoes of footmen at noon, one 
has not had a wink all night. But do you know, 
Trusty, that I am undone? 

Mrs. Trusty. Mercy forbid, madam ! 

Lady Townly. Broke, ruined, plundered! strip- 
ped even to a confiscation of my last guinea. 

Mrs. Trusty. You don't tell me so, madam! 

Lady Townly. And where to raise ten pounds 
in the world — What is to be done, Trusty ? 

Mrs. Trusty. Truly, I wish I were wise enough 
to tell you, madam: but may be your ladyship 
may have a better run of fortune upon some of 
the good company that comes here to-night. 

Lady Townly. But I have not a single guinea 
to try my fortune. 

Mrs. Trusty. No! that's a bad business indeed, 
madam. Oh, I have a thought in my head, if 
it's not too late — 



SELECT SCENES OE COMEDIES. 233 

Lady Townly. Out with it quickly then, I be- 
seech thee. 

Mrs. Trusty, Has not the steward something 
of fifty pounds , madam, that you left in his hands 
to pay somebody about this time? 

Lady Townly. Oh, aye: I had forgot — 'twas 
to a — what's his filthy name? 

Mrs. Trusty. Now I remember, madam; 'twas 
to Mr. Lutestring, your old mercer, that your la- 
dyship turned off, about a year ago , because he 
would trust you no longer. 

Lady Townly. The very wretch! If he has 
not paid it, run quickly, dear Trusty, and bid 
him bring it hither immediately. (Exit Trusty.) 
Well , sure mortal woman never had such for- 
tune! five, five, and nine, against poor seven, for 
ever! No, after that horrid bar of my chance — 
that Lady Wrongheads fatal fist upon the table, 
I saw it was impossible ever to win another stake: — 
sit up all night — lose all one's money — dream of 
winning thousands^wake without a shilling, and 
then — how like a hag I look ! In short — the plea- 
sures of life are not worth this disorder. If it 
were not for shame now, I could almost think 
Lady Grace's sober scheme not quite so ridiculous. 
If my wise lord could but hold his tongue for 
a week, 'tis odds but I should hate the town in 
a fortnight — but I will not be driven out of it, 
that's positive. 

Enter Mrs. TRUSTY. 

Mrs. Trusty. Oh, madam, there's no bearing- 
it! Mr. Lutestring was just let in at the door, 
as I came to the stair-foot; and the steward is now 
actually paying him the money in the hall. 

30 



23 i SELECT SCENES OF COMEDiES. 

Lady Townly. Run to the stair-case head again, 
and scream to him, that I must speak to him this 
instant. (Mrs. Trusty runs out and speaks.) 
Mr, Poundage, a word with you quickly. 
(Poundage comes to the door with a money-bag 
in his hand.) 

Mrs. Trusty. Oh, it's well you are come, sir; 
whereas the fifty pounds? 

Poundage. Why, here it is: if you had not 
heen in such haste, I should have paid it hy this 
time ; the man's now writing a receipt below 
for it. 

Mrs. Trusty. No matter: my lady says you 
must not pay him with that money; there's not 
enough, it seems — there's a pistole and a guinea 
that is not good in it — besides, there is a mistake 
in the account too — (Twitching the bag from him.) 
But she is not at leisure to examine it now: so 
you must bid Mr. What-d'ye caH'um call another 
time. 

Poundage. Nay, as her ladyship pleases (Exit.) 

Mrs. Trusty. There they are, madam. (Pours 
the money out of the bag.) The pretty things 
were, so near falling into a nasty tradesman's hands. 
I protest it made me tremble for them. 

Lady Townly. (Noise without.) But, hark! 
don't I hear the man making a noise yonder. 

Mrs. Trusty. Fll listen. 

Lady Townly. Pr'ythee do. 

Mrs. Trusty. (Goes to the door.) Oh, madam! 
undone! undone! my lord has just come out to 
the man, and is hearing all his pitiful story over. 
Oh heavens! his lordship is coming. 

Lady Townly. Do you get out of the way then. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 335 

(Exit Mrs. Trusty.) I am afraid I want spirits, 
but he will soon give me them. 

Enter LORD TOWNLY. 

Lord Townly. How comes it, madam , that a 
tradesman dares be clamorous in my house, for 
money due from you to him ? 

Lady Townly. You don't expect, my lord^ that 
I should answer for other people's impertinence! 

Lord Townly. I expect, madam, you should 
answer for your own extravagancies, that are the 
occasion of it; I thought I had given you money 
three months ago, to satisfy all these sort of 
people. 

Lady Townly. Yes; but you see they are ne- 
ver to be satisfied. 

Lord Townly. Nor am I, madam, longer to 
be abused thus — what's become of the five hun- 
dred I gave you yesterday? 

Lady Townly. Gone. 

Lord Townly. Gone! what way, madam? 

Lady Townly. Half the town over, I believe, 
by this time. 

Lord Townly. 'Tis well3 I see ruin will make 
no impression till it falls upon you. Who's there? 

Enter WILLIAMS. 

Desire my sister and Mr. Manly to walk up. 
(Exit Williams.) 

Lady Townly. My lord, you may proceed as 
you please; but pray what indiscretions have { 
committed, that are not daily practised by a hun- 
dred other women of quality? 



236 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Lord Townly. Tis not the number of ill 
wives, madam, that makes the patience of a hus- 
band less contemptible; and though a bad one 
may be the best man's lot, yet he'll make a bet- 
ter figure in the world , that keeps his misfortunes 
out of doors, than he that tamely keeps them 
within. 

Lady Townly. I don't know what figure you 
may make, my lord; but I shall have no reason 
to be ashamed of mine, in whatever company I 
may meet you. 

Lord Townly. Be sparing of your spirit, ma- 
dam; you'll need it to support you. 

Enter LADY GRACE and MANLY. 

Mr Manly, I have an act of friendship to beg 
of you, which wants more apologies than words 
can make for it. 

Manly. Then pray make none, my lord, that 
I may have the greater merit in obliging you. 

Lord Townly. Sister, I have the same excuse 
to entreat of you too. 

Lady Grace. To your request, I beg, my lord. 

Lord Townly. Thus then. — As you both were 
present at my ill-considered marriage, I now de- 
sire you each will be a witness of my determined 
separation — I know, sir, your good-nature, and 
my sister's, must be shocked at the office I impose 
on you; but as I don't ask your justification of 
my cause, so I hope you are conscious that an ill 
woman can't reproach you, if you are silent on 
her side. 

Manly. My lord, I never thought, till now, it 
could be difficult to oblige you. ^ 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 237 

Lord Townly. For you, my Lady Townly, I 
need not here repeat the provocations of my par- 
ting with you, — the world, I fear, is too well in- 
formed of them — For the good lord , your dear 
father's sake, I will still support you as his daugh- 
ter. As the Lord Townly's wife, you have had 
every tiling a fond husband could bestow; and, to 
our mutual shame I speak it, more than happy 
wives desire. But those indulgencies must end, — 
state, equipage, and splendour, but ill become the 
vices that misuse them. The decent necessaries 
of life shall be supplied, but not one article to 
luxury — not even the coach that waits to carry 
you from hence, shall you ever use again. Your 
tender aunt, my Lady Lovemore, with tears, this 
morning, has consented to receive you; where, if 
time and a proper sense of your condition bring you to 
a due reflection, your allowance shall be encreased — 
but if you still are lavish of your little, or pine for past 
licentious pleasures, that little shall be less; nor 
will I call that soul my friend that names you in my 
hearing. Oh, Manly, look there! turn back thy 
thoughts with me , and witness to my growing 
love. There was a time, when I believed that 
form incapable of vice or decay; there I posses- 
sed the partner of an easy home; there I for ever 
hoped to find a cheerful companion , a faithful 
friend, a useful helpmate, and a tender mother — 
but, oh, how bitter now the disappointment! 

Manly. The world is different in its sense of 
happiness; offended as you are, I know you will 
still be just. 

Lord Toavnly. Fear me not. 
Manly. This last reproach, I see, has struck 
her. (Aside.) 



238 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Lord Townly. No, let me not (though I this 
moment cast her from my heart for ever), 
let me not urge her punishment beyond her 
crimes — I know the world is fond of any tale that 
feeds its appetite for scandal; but I here , before 
you both, acquit her of the least suspicion raised 
against my honour. Therefore, when abroad her 
conduct may be questioned, do her fame that 
justice. 

Lady Townly. Oh, sister! (Turns to Lady Grace, 
weeping.) 

Lord Townly. When I am spoken of, where, 
without favour, this action may be canvassed, re- 
late but half my provocations, and give me up 
to censure. (Going.) 

Lady Townly. Support me — save me — hide 
me from the world ! (Falling on Ladj Grace's 
neck.) 

Lord Townly. (Returning.) I had forgot me. — 
You have no share in my resentment , therefore, 
as you have lived in friendship with her, your 
parting may admit of gentler terms than suit 
the honour of an injured husband. (Offers to 
go out.) 

Manly. (Interposing.) My lord, you must not, 
shall riot, leave her thus! One moment's stay 
can do your cause no wrong. If looks can speak 
the language of the heart, IT1 answer with my 
life, there's something labouring in her mind, 
that, would you bear the hearing, might de- 
serve it. 

Lord Townly. Consider — since we no more 
can meet, press not my staying to insult her. 

Lady Townly. Yet, stay, my lord — the little 
I would say will not deserve an insult; and un- 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 23U 

deserved, I know your nature gives it not. But 
as you've called in friends to witness your resent- 
ment, let them be equal hearers of my last reply. 
Lord Townly. I shaVt refuse you that, ma- 
dam — be it so. 

Lady Townly. Before I was your bride, my 
lord, the flattering world had talked me into beau- 
ty; which, at my glass, my youthful vanity 
confirmed. Wild with that fame, I thought man- 
kind my slaves — I triumphed over hearts, while 
all my pleasure was their pain : yet was my own 
so equally insensible to all , that, when a father's 
firm commands enjoined me to make choice of 
one, I even there declined the liberty he gave, 
and to his own election yielded up my youth — 
his tender care, my lord, directed him to you. 
Our hands were joined, but still my heart was 
wedded to its folly. My only joy was power, 
command, society, profuseness, and to lead in 
pleasures. The husband's right to rule I thought 
a vulgar law, which only the deformed or meanly 
spirited obeyed. I knew no directors but my pas- 
sions, no master but my will. Even you, my lord, 
sometimes o'ercome by love, were pleased with 
my delights; nor then foresaw this mad misuse 
of your indulgence. And though I call myself 
ungrateful while I own it, yet as a truth it can- 
not be denied , that kind indulgence has undone 
me ; it added strength to my habitual failings, 
and in a heart thus warm in wild, unthinking 
life, no wonder if the gentle sense of love was 
lost. 

Lord Townly. Oh, Manly! where has this crea- 
ture's heart been buried? (Apart.) 



240 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES* 

Manly. If yet recoverable, how vast the trea- 
sure! (Apart.) 

Lady Townly. What I have said, my lord, is 
not my excuse, but my confession; my errors 
(give them, if you please, a harder name) cannot 
be defended; — no, what's in its nature wrong, no 
words can palliate — no plea can alter! what then 
remains in my condition, but resignation to your 
pleasure? Time only can convince you of my 
future conduct; therefore, till I have lived an 
object of forgiveness, I dare not hope for pardon. 
The penance of a lonely, contrite life, were little 
to the innocent; but, to have deserved this sepa- 
ration, will strew perpetual thorns upon my pil- 
low — sister, farewell! (Kisses her.) Your virtue 
needs no warning from the shame that falls on 
me; but when you think I have atoned my fol- 
lies past , persuade your injured brother to for- 
give them. 

Lord Townly. No, madam! your errors thus 
renounced, this instant are forgotten! so deep, so 
due a sense of them has made you what my ut- 
most wishes formed , and all my heart has sighed 
for. Long parted friends, that pass through easy 
voyages of life, receive but common gladness in 
their meeting; but from a shipwreck saved, we 
mingle tears with our embraces. (Embraces Lady 
Townly.) 

Lady Townly. What words — what love — what 
duty can repay such obligations? 

Lord Townly. Preserve but this desire to please, 
your power is endless. 

Lady Townly. Oh, till this moment, never did 
I know, my lord, I had a heart to give you! 

Lord Townly. By heaven, this yielding hand, 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 24l 

when first it gave you to my wishes, presented 
not a treasure more desirable! — Oh! Manly, sis- 
ter! as you have often shared in my disquiet, par- 
take in my felicity — my newborn joy! This may 
be called my wedding-day. 

Lady Grace. Sister (for now methinks that 
name is dearer to me than ever) let me congra- 
tulate you on the happiness that opens to you. 

Manly. Long, long^ and mutual, may it flow. 



SCENES FROM THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

SIR PETER TEAZLE, an old Bachelor who has lately 

married. 
SIR OLIVER SURFACE, just arrived from India, very 

rich. 
CHARLES SURFACE, Sir Oliver's Nephew, dissipated, 

but generous and good-hearted, 
JOSEPH SURFACE, his Brother, a Hypocrite. 
CARELESS, one of Charles's ^dissipated Friends. 
ROWLEY, a Steward. 
MOSES, a Jew. 



SCENE I. 
ROWLEY and SIR OLIVER SURFACE. 

Sir Oliver. Ha! ha! ha? So my old friend 
is married, hey? a young wife out of the coun- 

31 



242 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

try: — Ha! ha! ha! that, he should have stood bluff 
to old bachelor so long, and sink into a husband 
at last. 

Rowley. But you must not rally him on the 
subject, Sir Oliver: 'tis a tender point I assure 
you, though he has been married only seven months. 

Sir Oliver. Then he has been just half a year 
on the stool of repentance. Poor Peter! — But 
you say he has entirely given up Charles — never 
sees him, hey ? 

Rowley. His prejudice against him is astonish- 
ing, and I am sure , greatly encreased by a jealousy 
of him with Lady Teazle _, which he has indus- 
triously been led into, by a scandalous society in 
the neighbourhood, who have contributed not a 
little to Charles's ill name; whereas, the truth is, 
I believe, if the lady is partial to either of them, 
his brother is the favourite. 

Sir Oliver. Ay, I know there are a set of 
malicious, prating, prudent gossips, both male and 
female, who murder characters to kill time; and 
will rob a young fellow of his good name before 
he has years to know the value of it. But I am 
not to be prejudiced against my nephew by such, 
I promise you. — No, no, — if Charles has done 
nothing false or mean, I shall compound for his 
extravagance. 

Rowley. Then, my life on't, you will reclaim 
him. Ah, sir! it gives me new life to find that 
your heart is not turned against him; and that 
the son of my good old master has one friend, 
however, left. 

Sir Oliver. What, shall I forget, Master Row- 
ley, when I was at his years myself? — Egad, my 
brother and I were neither of us very prudent 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 243 

youths; and yet, I believe you have not seen many 
belter men than your old master was. 

Rowley. Sir, 'tis this reflection gives me as- 
surance that Charles may yet be a credit to his 
family. — But here comes Sir Peter! 

Sir Oliver. Egad, so he does. — Mercy on me! — 
He's greatly altered, and seems to have a settled 
married look! One may read husband in his face 
at this distance ! 

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE. 

Sir Peter. Hah! Sir Oliver — my old friend! 
Welcome to England a thousand times ! 

Sir Oliver. Thank you— thank you, Sir Peter! 
and i'faith I am glad to find you well, believe 
me. 

Sir Peter. Oh! 'tis a long time since we met — 
fifteen years I doubt, Sir Oliver, and many a cross 
accident in the time. 

Sir Oliver. Ay, I have had my share. But 
what! I find you are married, hey ? Well, well — 
it can't be helped- — and so— I wish you joy with 
all my heart. 

Sir Peter. Thank you, thank you, Sir Oliver. 
Yes, I have entered into — the happy state; but 
we'll not talk of that now. 

Sir Oliver. True, true, Sir Peter: old friends 
should not begin on grievances at first meeting — 
no, no, no. 

Rowley. Take care, pray, sir. 

Sir Oliver. Well — So one of my nephews is 
a wild fellow, hey? 

Sir Peter Wild! Ah! my old friend, I grieve 
for your disappointment there; he's a lost young* 



244 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES * 

man, indeed. However, his brother will make yoo 
amends ; Joseph is , indeed , what a youth should 
be. Every body in the world speaks well of him. 

Sir Oliver. I am very sorry to hear it; he 
has too good a character to be an honest fellow. 
Every body speaks well of him! Pshaw! then he 
has bowed as low to knaves and fools as to the 
honest dignity of genius and virtue. 

Sir Peter. What, Sir Oliver! do you blame him 
for not making enemies? 

Sir Oliver. Yes, if he has merit enough to 
deserve them. 

Sir Peter. Well, well, you'll be convinced 
when you know him. 'Tis edification to hear him 
converse! he professes the noblest sentiments. 

Sir Oliver. Oh, plague of his sentiments! If 
he salutes me with a scrap of morality in his 
mouth, I shall be sick directly. — But, however, 
don't mistake me, Sir Peter; I don't mean to de- 
fend Charles's errors: but before I form my judg- 
ment of either of them, I intend to make a trial 
of their hearts, and my friend Rowley and I have 
planned something for the purpose. 

Rowley. And Sir Peter shall own for once he 
has been mistaken. 

Sir Peter. Oh, my life on Joseph's honour! 

Sir Oliver. Well — come, give us a bottle of 
good wine, and we'll drink the lad's health, and 
tell you our scheme. 

Sir Peter. A lions , then! 

Sir Oliver. And don't, Sir Peter, be so severe 
against your old friend's son. Odds my life! I 
am not sorry that he has run out of the course 
a little: for my part, I hate to see prudence cling- 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 245 

ing to the green suckers of youth 5 'tis like" ivy 
round a sapling, and spoils the growth of the tree. 



SCENE II. 



SIR PETER TEAZLE, SIR OLIVER SURFACE, 
and ROWLEY. 

Sir Peter. Well, then, we will see this fel- 
low first, and have our wine afterwards: but how 
is this, Master Rowley? I don't see the jest of 
your scheme. 

Rowley. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley, who I 
was speaking of, is nearly related to them by their 
mother. He was a merchant in Dublin, but has 
been ruined by a series of undeserved misfor- 
tunes. He has applied by letter to Mr. Surface and 
Charles: from the former he has received nothing 
but evasive promises of future service, while Charles 
has done all that his extravagance has left 
him power to do; and he is, at this time, endea- 
vouring to raise a sum of money , part of which, 
in the midst of his own distresses, I know he 
intends for the service df poor Stanley. 

Sir Oliver. Ah! he is my brother's son. 

Sir Peter. Well, but how is Sir Oliver perso- 
nally to — 

Rowley. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and 
his brother, that Stanley has obtained permission 
to apply personally to his friends ; and as they 
have neither of them ever seen him, let Sir Oli- 
ver assume his character, and he will have a fair 
opportunity of judging, at least, of the benevo- 
lence of their dispositions; and believe me, in the 
midst of folly and dissipation, Charles has still, 



246 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES* 

as our immortal bard expresses it, — « a heart to 
pity, and a hand open as day, for melting cha- 
rity. » 

Sir Peter. Pshaw ! What signifies his having 
an open hand or purse either, when he has no- 
thing left to give? Well, well, make the trial, if 
you please. But where is the fellow whom you 
brought for Sir Oliver to examine, relative to 
Charles's affairs. 

Rowley. Below, waiting his commands, and 
no one can give him better intelligence. This, 
Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who, to do him 
justice, has done every thing in his power to 
bring your nephew to a proper sense of his ex- 
travagance. 

Sir Peter. Pray let us have him in. 

Rowley. Desire Mr. Moses to walk up stairs. 
(To a Servant.) 

Sir Peter. But, pray, why should you sup- 
pose he will speak the truth? 

Rowley. Oh! I have convinced him that he 
has no chance of recovering certain sums advan- 
ced to Charles, but through the bounty of Sir 
Oliver, who, he knows, is arrived; so that you 
may depend on his fidelity to his own interests; 
here comes the honest Israelite. 

Enter MOSES. 

This is Sir Oliver. 

Sir Oliver. Sir, I understand you have lately 
had dealings with my nephew Charles. 

Moses. Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I could 
for him; but he was ruined before he came to me 
for assistance. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 247 

Sir Oliver. That was unlucky, truly, for you 
have had no opportunity of showing your talents. 

Moses. None at all; I hadn't the pleasure of 
knowing his distresses till he was some thousands 
worse than nothing. 

Sir Oliver. Unfortunate, indeed! But I sup- 
pose you have done all in your power for him, 
honest Moses? 

Moses. Yes, he knows that; this very evening 
I was to have brought him a gentleman from the 
city, who does not know him, and will, I believe, 
advance him some money. 

Sir Peter. What! One Charles has never had 
money from before? 

Moses. Yes: Mr. Premium, of Crutched-friars, 
formerly a broker. 

Sir Peter. Egad, Sir Oliver, a thought strikes 
me. Charles, you say, does not know M r Pre- 
mium? 

Moses. Not at all. 

Sir Peter. Now then, Sir Oliver ^ you may 
have a better opportunity of satisfying yourself, 
than by an old romancing tale of a poor relation: 
go with my friend Moses, and represent Premium, 
and then, I'll answer for it, you'll see your ne- 
phew in all his glory. 

Sir Oliver. Egad, I like this idea better than 
the other, and I may visit Joseph afterwards as 
old Stanley. 

Sir Peter. True, so you may. 

Rowley. Well, this is taking Charles rather 
at a disadvantage, to be sure; however, Moses, 
you understand Sir Peter, and will be faithful. 

Moses. You may depend on me;— this is near 
the time I was to have gone. 



248 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Sir Oliver. I'll accompany you as soon as you 
please, Moses. But hold! I have forgotten one 
thing— how the plague shall I be able to pass 
for a jew? 

Moses. There's no need — the principal is Chris- 
tian. 

Sir Oliver. Is he? I'm very sorry to hear it. 
But then, again, a'n't I rather too smartly dressed 
to look like a money-lender? 

Sir Peter. Not at all; 'twould not be out of 
character, if you went in your own carriage- — would 
it, Moses? 

Moses. Not in the least. 

Sir Oliver. Well, but how must I talk? there's 
certainly some cant of usury and mode of trea- 
ting, that I ought to know. 

Sir Peter. Oh, there's not much to learn. The 
great point, as I take it, is to be exorbitant enough 
in your demands, hey, Moses? 

Moses, yes, that's a very great point. 

Sir Oliver. Fll answer for't; I'll not be want- 
ing in that. I'll ask him eight or ten per cent 
on the loan, at least. 

Moses. If you ask him no more than that, 
you'll be discovered immediately. 

Sir Oliver. Hey ! what the plague ! how much 
then? 

Moses. That depends upon circumstances. If 
he appears not very anxious for the supply, you 
should require only forty or fifty per cent; but if 
you find him in great distress, and that he wants 
the money very bad, you may ask double 

Sir Peter. A good honest trade you're learning, 
Sir Oliver. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. ; 249 

Sir Oliver. Truly, I think so — and not unpro- 
fitable. 

Moses. Then, you know, you hav'n't the mo- 
ney yourself, but are forced to borrow it for him 
of an old friend. 

Sir Oliver. Oh ! I borrow it of a friend, do I? 

Moses. And your friend is an unconscionable 
dog; but you can't help that. 

Sir Oliver. My friend an unconscionable dog? 

Moses. Yes, and he himself has not the mo- 
ney by him, but is forced to sell stock at a great 
loss. 

Sir Oliver. He is forced to sell stock at a great 
loss, is he? Well, that's very kind of him. 

Sir Peter, l'faith, Sir Oliver, Mr. Premium I 
mean, you'll soon be master of the trade. But, 
Moses, would not you have him run out a little 
against the Annuity Bill? That would be in cha- 
racter I should think. 

Moses. Very much. 

Rowley ; And lament that a young man now 
must be at years of discretion before he is suffered 
to ruin himself? 

Moses. Ay, a great pity. 

Sir Peter. And abuser the public for allowing 
merit to an act, whose only object is to snatch 
misfortune and imprudence from the rapacious 
gripe of usury, and give the minor a chance of 
inheriting his estate, without being undone by 
coming into possession? 

Sir (Jliver. So, so: Moses shall give me farther 
instructions as we go together. 

Sir Peter. You will not have much time, for 
your nephew lives hard by, 

32 



£>50 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Sir Oliver. Oh ! never fear: my tutor appears so 
able, that though Charles lived in the next street, 
it must be my own fault if I am not a complete 
rogue before I turn the corner. 



SCENE III. 



SIR OLIVER SURFACE, CHARLES SURFACE, 
AND MOSES. 

Moses. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman 
of the strictest honour and secrecy, and always 
performs what he undertakes. Mr. Premium, 
this is — 

Charles. Pshaw, have done. Sir, my friend 
Moses is a very honest fellow, but a little slow 
at expression; he'll be an hour giving us our titles. 
Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is 
this : I am an extravagant young fellow, who wants 
to borrow money ; you , I take to be a prudent 
old fellow , who have got money to lend. I am 
blockhead enough to give fifty per cent, sooner 
than not have it; and you, I presume , are rogue 
enough to take a hundred, if you can get it. 
Now, sir, you see we are acquainted at once, and 
may proceed to business without further cere- 
mony. 

Sir Oliver. Exceeding frank, upon my word. 
I see, sir, you are not a man of many compli- 
ments. 

Charles. Oh no, sir; plain dealing in business 
I always think best. 

Sir Oliver. Sir^ I like you the better for it; 
however, you are mistaken in one thing; I have 
no money to lend, but I believe I could procure 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. ^51 

some of a friend; but then he's an unconscionable 
dog, isn't he Moses? 

Moses. But you can't help that. 

Sir Oliver. And must sell stock to accommo- 
date you, mustn't he Moses? 

Moses. Yes, indeed. You know I always speak 
the truth, and scorn to tell a lie. 

Charles. Right. People that speak truth ge- 
nerally do; but these are trifles, Mr. Premium. 
What! I know money isn't to be bought without 
paying for it ! 

Sir Oliver. Well, but what security could you 
give? You have no land, I suppose? 

Charles. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what's 
in the bough-pots out of the window. 

Sir Oliver. Nor any stock, I presume? 

Charles. Nothing but live stock, and that's 
only a few pointers and ponies. But pray, Mr. 
Premium, are you acquainted at all with any of 
my connexions? 

Sir Oliver. Why, to say truth, I am. 

Charles. Then you must know that I have a 
very rich uncle in the East Indies , Sir Oliver 
Surface, from whom I have the greatest expec- 
tations. 

Sir Oliver. That you have a wealthy uncle, 
I have heard; but how your expectations will turn 
out, is more, I believe, than you can tell. 

Charles. Oh no! there can be no doubt. They 
tell me I'm a prodigious favourite, and that he 
talks of leaving me every thing. 

Sir Oliver. Indeed! this is the first I've heard 
of it. 

Charles. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses knows 
'tis true, don't you Moses? 



252 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Moses. O yes, FU swear it 

Sir Oliver. Egad, they'll persuade me, pre- 
sently, Fm at Bengal. (Aside.) 

Charles. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's 
agreeable to you, a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life, 
though, at the same time, the old fellow has 
been so liberal to me, that I give you my word, 
I should be very sorry to hear that any thing had 
happened to him. 

Sir Oliver. Not more than I should, I assure 
you. But the bond you mention happens to be 
just the worst security you could offer me, for 
I might live to a hundred, and never see the 
principal. 

Charles. O yes, you would. The moment Sir 
Oliver dies , you know , you would come on me 
for the money. 

Sir Oliver. Then, I believe, I should be the 
most unwelcome dun you ever had in your life. 

Charles. What! I suppose you are afraid that 
Sir Oliver is too good a life? 

Sir Oliver. No, indeed, I am not; though I 
have heard he is as hale and healthy as any man 
of his years in Christendom. 

Charles. There again, now, you are misin- 
formed. No,, no, the climate has hurt him con- 
siderably, poor uncle Oliver! Yes, yes, he breaks 
apace, I'm told; and is so much altered lately, 
that his nearest relations don't know him. 

Sir Oliver. No? ha! ha! so much altered late- 
ly , that his nearest relations don't know him — 
ha! ha! ha! 

Charles. Ha! ha! You're glad to hear that, 
little Premium? 

Sir Oliver. No, no, I'm not. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 253 

Charles. Yes, yes, you are! Ha! ha! ha! You 
know that mends your chance. 

Sir Oliver. But Fm told Sir Oliver is coming 
over — nay, some say he is actually arrived? 

Charles. Pshaw ! Sure I must know better 
than you whether he's come or not. No, no, rely 
on't, he's at this moment at Calcutta — isn't he, 
Moses ? 

Moses. O yes, certainly. 

Sir Oliver. Very true, as you say, you must 
know better than I, though I have it from pretty 
good authority — hav'n't I, Moses? 

Moses. Yes, most undoubted. 

Sir Oliver. But, sir, as I understand you want 
a few hundreds immediately, is there nothing you 
could dispose of? 

Charles. How do you mean? 

Sir Oliver. For instance now, I have heard 
that your father left behind him a great quantity 
of massy old plate ? 

Charles. O Lud! — that's gone long ago. Moses 
can tell you how, better than I can. 

Sir Oliver. Good lack ! all the family race cups 
and corporation bowls \ (Aside.) Then it was 
also supposed that his library was one of the most 
valuable and compact. 

Charles. Yes, yes, so it was — vastly too much 
so for a private gentleman. For my part, I was 
always of a communicative disposition, so I thought 
it a shame to keep so much knowledge to my- 
self. 

Sir Oliver. Mercy upon me ! Learning that 
had run in the family like an heir-loom! (Aside.) 
Pray what are become of the books? 

Charles. You must enquire of the auctioneer, 



<254 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

master Premium, for I don't believe even Moses 
can direct you. 

Moses. I know nothing of books. 

Sir Oliver. So, so, nothing of the family pro- 
perty left, I suppose. 

Charles. Not much, indeed; unless you have 
a mind to the family pictures. I have got a room 
full of ancestors above , and if you have a taste 
for paintings, egad, you shall have 'em a bargain. 

Sir Oliver. Hey! what the deuce! sure you 
wouldn't sell your forefathers, would you? 

Charles. Every man of them to the best bid- 
der. 

Sir Oliver. What, your great uncles and aunts ? 

Charles. Ay, and my great grandfathers and 
grandmothers too. 

Sir Oliver. Now I give him up. [Aside.) What 
the plague , have you no bowels for your own 
kindred? Odd's life, do you take me for Shy lock 
in the play, that you would raise money of me 
on your own flesh and blood? 

Charles. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry : 
what need you care, if you have your money's 
worth ? 

Sir Oliver. Well, FU be the purchaser: I think 
I can dispose of the family canvas. Oh, I'll ne- 
ver forgive him this, never! [Aside.) 



SCENE IV 



CHARLES SURFACE, SIR OLIVER SURFACE, 
MOSES, and CARELESS. 

Charles. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; — 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES, 



255 



here they are, the family of the Surfaces, up to 
the conquest. 

Sir Oliver. And, in my opinion, a goodly col- 
lection. 

Charles. Ay, ay, these are done in the true 
spirit of portrait painting. — Not like the works 
of your modern Raphaels, who give you the 
strongest resemblance, yet contrive to make your 
portrait independent of you; so that you may sink 
the original and not hurt the picture. — No, no, 
the merit of these is the inveterate likeness — all 
stiff and awkward as the originals, and like nothing 
in human nature besides. 

Sir Oliver. Ah! we shall never see such figures 
of men again. 

Charles. I hope not. — Well, you see, master 
Premium, what a domestic character I am; here 
I sit of an evening surrounded by my family. — 
But come — get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; 
here's an old gouty chair of my father's will an- 
swer the purpose. 

Careless. Ay, ay, this will do. — But Charles, 
I hav'n't a hammer; and what's an auctioneer 
without his hammer? . , 

Charles. Egad, that's true; — what parchment 
have we here? Oh, our genealogy in full. Here, 
Careless, — • you shall have no common bit of ma- 
hogany, here's the family tree for vou, you rogue, — 
this shall be your hammer, and now you may 
knock down my ancestors with their own pe- 
digree. 

Sir Oliver. What an unnatural rogue! an ex- 
post facto parricide]! (Aside.) 

Careless. Yes, yes, here's a bit of your gene- 
ration , indeed : faith , Charles , this is the most 



256 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

convenient thing you could have found for the 
business, for 'twill serve you not only as a ham- 
mer, but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, 
begin — a-going, a-going, a-going. 

Charles. Bravo, Careless! — Well, here's my 
great uncle, Sir Richard Raveline, a marvellous 
good general in his day, I assure you; he served 
in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars_, and got 
that cut over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. — 
What say you, Mr. Premium? look at him, — there's 
a hero; what do you bid ? 

Moses. Mr. Premium would have you speak. 

Charles. Why, then, he shall have him for, 
ten pounds^ and Fm sure that's not dear for a staff 
officer. 

Sir Oliver. Heaven deliver me ! his famous 
uncle Richard for ten pounds ! (Aside,) Well, sir, 
I take him at that. 

Charles. Careless, knockdown my uncle Rich- 
ard. —Here, now, is a maiden sister of his, 
my great aunt Deborah, done by Kneller, thought 
to be in his best manner, and a very formidable 
likeness. — There she is , you see , a shepherdess 
and her flock. — You shall have her for five pounds 
ten — the sheep are worth the money. 

Sir Oliver. Ah poor Deborah! a woman who 
set such value on herself! (Aside,) Five pounds 
ten, — she's mine. 

Charles. But plague on't, we shall be all day 
retailing in this manner; do let us deal whole- 
sale; what say you, little Premium? Give me 
three hundred pounds for the rest of the family 
in the lump. 

Sir Oliver. Well, well, any thing to accom- 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 257 

modate you; — they are mine. But there is one 
portrait which you have always passed over. 

Charles. What that ill-looking little fellow over 
the settee? . 

Sir Oliver. Yes, sir, I mean that, though I 
don't think him so ill-looking a little fellow, by 
any means. 

Charles. What that? — Oh! that's my uncle 
Oliver; 'twas done before he went to India. No, 
hang it; Til not part with poor Noll. The old 
fellow has been very good to me, and egad, I'll 
keep his picture while I've a room to put it in. 

Sir Oliver. The rogue's my nephew after all! 
(Aside.) But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy 
to this picture. 

Charles. I'm sorry for it, for you certainly 
will not have it. — Oons, l^av'nt you got enough 
of them? 

Sir 'Oliver. I forgive him every thing! (Aside) — 
But, sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't 
value money. Ill give you as much for that as 
for all the rest. 

Charles. Don't teaze me , master broker ; I 
tell you Til not part with it, and there's an end 
of it. 

Sir Oliver. How like his father the dog is! 
(Aside.) Well, well, I have done. — I did not 
perceive it before , but I think I never saw such 
a striking resemblance. (Aside.) Here is a draught 
for your sum — come, Moses. 

Charles. But, hold; do now send a genteel 
conveyance for them, for, I assure you, they were 
most of them used to ride in their own carriages. 

Sir Oliver. I will, I will — for all but Oliver? 

33 



£58 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Charles. Ay, all but the little nabob. 

Sir Oliver. You're fixed on that? 

Charles. Peremptorily. 

Sir Oliver. A dear extravagant rogue ! (Aside.) 
Good day! — Come, Moses.— Let me hear now who 
calls him extravagant. 

(Exeunt Sir Oliver Surface, Moses, and Careless.) 

Charles. Soh! This was an odd old fellow, 
indeed. — Let me see , two thirds of this is mine 
by right. 'Fore Heaven ! I find one's ancestors 
are more valuable relations than I took them for! 
Ladies and gentlemen, your most obedient and 
very grateful servant (bowing.) 

Enter ROWLEY. 

Hah! old Rowley! egad, you are just come in 
time to take leave of*your old acquaintance. 

Rowley. * Yes, I heard they were going* But 
I wonder you can have such spirits under so many 
distresses. 

Charles. Why there's the point ! my distres- 
ses are so many, that I can't afford to part with 
my spirits; but I shall be rich and splenetic all in 
good time. However, I suppose you are surpri- 
sed that I am not more sorrowful at parting with 
so many near relations ; to be sure , 'tis very af- 
fecting; but you see they never move a muscle, 
so why should I ? 

Rowley. There's no making you serious a mo- 
ment. 

Charles. — Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my 
honest Rowley, here, get me this changed directly, 
and take a hundred pounds of it immediately to 
old Stanley. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 259 

Rowley. A hundred pounds ! Consider only - 

Charles. Gad's life, don't talk about it: poor 
Stanley's wants are pressing, and if you don't 
make haste, we shall have some one call that has 
a better right to the money. 

Rowley. Ah! there's the point! I never will 
cease dunning you with the old proverb — 

Charles. «Be just before you're generous. » — 
Why, so I would if I could; but Justice is an old 
lame hobbling beldame, and I can't get her to 
keep pace with generosity, for the soul of me. 

Rowley. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's 
reflection — 

Charles. Ay, ay, it's all very true; but hark'ee, 
Rowley, while I have, by heaven I'll give; so 
good bye t'ye. 



SCENE IV. 
JOSEPH SURFACE and SERVANT. 

Joseph. Mr. Stanley! — and why should you 
think I would see him ? You must know he comes 
to ask something. 

Servant. Sir, I should not have let him in, but 
that Mr. Rowley came to the door with him. 

Joseph. Pshaw ! blockhead ! to suppose that I 
should be in a temper to receive visits from poor 
relations. Well, why don't you show the fel- 
low up? 

Servant. I will, sir. 

Enter SIR OLIVER SURFACE. 
Joseph. Sir, I beg you ten thousand pardons 



260 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 



for keeping you a moment waiting — Mr. Stanley, 
I presume. 

Sir Oliver. At your service. 

Joseph. Sir, I beg you will do me the honour 
to sit down — I entreat you, sir? - 

Sir Oliver. Dear sir — there's no occasion — too 
civil by half. {Aside.) 

Joseph. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
you, Mr. Stanley; but I am extremely happy to 
see you look so well. You were nearly related 
to my mother, I think, Mr. Stanley? 

Sir Oliver. I was, sir; — so nearly, that my 
present poverty, I fear, may do discredit to her 
wealthy children, else I should not have presumed 
to trouble you. 

Joseph. Dear sir, there needs no apology: he 
that is in distress, though a stranger, has a right 
to claim kindred with the wealthy. I am sure 
I wish I was of that class, and had it in my pow- 
er to offer you even a small relief. 

Sir Oliver. If your uncle, Sir Oliver, were 
here, I should have a friend. 

Joseph. I wish he was, sir, with all my heart; 
you should not want an advocate with him, be- 
lieve me, sir. 

Sir Oliver. I should not need one., my dis- 
tresses would recommend me. But I imagined his 
bounty would enable you to become the agent of 
his charity. 

Joseph. My dear sir, you are strangely misin- 
formed. Sir Oliver is a worthy man, a very wor- 
thy man; but avarice, Mr Stanley, is the vice of 
age. J will tell you, my good sir, in confidence, 
what he has done for me has been a mere nothing; 
though people, I know, have thought otherwise, 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 261 

and for my part, I never chose to contradict the 
report. 

Sir Oliver. What! he has never transmitted 
you| bul lion — rupees — pagodas ? 

Joseph. O, dear sir, nothing* of the kind: — 
No, no, a few presents now and then, — china 
shawls — congou teas — avadavats, and Indian crack- 
ers; — little more, believe me. 

Sir Oliver. Here's gratitude for twelve thou- 
sand pounds ! Avadavats and Indian crackers ! 
(Aside.) 

Joseph. Then, my dear sir, you have heard, I 
doubt not, of the extravagance of my brother; 
there are very few would credit what I have done 
for that unfortunate young man. 

Sir Oliver. Not I, for one! (Aside.) 

Joseph. The sums I have lent him ! Indeed, I 
have been exceedingly to blame; it was an amiable 
weakness; however, I don't pretend to defend 
it; — and now I feel it doubly culpable , since it 
has deprived me of the pleasure of serving you, 
Mr. Stanley, as my heart dictates. 

Sir Oliver. Dissembler ! (Aside.) Then, sir, you 
can't assist me ? 

Joseph. At present, it grieves me to say, I 
cannot; but whenever I have the ability, you may 
depend upon hearing from me. 

Sir Oliver. I am extremely sorry — 

Joseph. Not more than I, believe me ; to pity 
without the power to relieve, is still more painful 
than to ask and be denied. 

Sir Oliver. Kind sir, your most obedient humble 
servant. 

Joseph. You leave me deeply affected, Mr. 
Stanley. William , be ready to open the door. 



26£ SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Sir Oliver. O, dear sir, no ceremony. 

Joseph. Your very obedient. 

Sir Oliver. Sir, your most obsequious. 

Joseph. You many depend upon hearing from 
me_, whenever I can be of service. 

Sir Oliver. Sweet sir, you are too good! 

Joseph. In the mean time, I wish you health 
and spirits. 

Sir Oliver. Your ever grateful, and perpetual 
humble servant. 

Joseph. Sir, yours as sincerely. 

Sir Oliver. Charles, you are my heir. {Aside. 
Exit.) 

Joseph. This is one bad effect of a good cha- 
racter; it invites application from the unfortunate, 
and there needs no small degree of address 
to gain the reputation of benevolence , without 
incurring the expense. The silver ore of pure 
charity is an expensive article in the catalogue 
of a mans good qualities; whereas the sentimen- 
tal French plate I use instead of it, makes just 
as good a show, and pays no tax. 

Enter ROWLEY. 

Rowley. Mr. Surface , your servant : I was 
apprehensive of interrupting you, though my bu^ 
siness demands immediate attention, as this note 
will inform you. 

Joseph. Always happy to see Mr. Rowley. 
(Reads the letter.) Sir Oliver Surface! My uncle 
arrived ! 

Rowley. He is^ indeed: we have just parted; 
quite well, after a speedy voyage, and impatient 
to embrace his worthy nephew. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 263 

Joseph. I am astonished ! William , stop Mr. 
Stanley, if he's not gone. 

Rowley. Oh! he's out of reach, I helieve. 

Joseph. Why did you not let me know this when 
you came in together? 

Rowley. I thought you had particular business; 
hut I must be gone to inform your brother, and 
appoint him here to meet your uncle. He will be 
with you in a quarter of an hour. 

JosErH. So he says. Well n I am strangely 
overjoyed at his coming. "Never to be sure was 
any thing so infernally unlucky. (Aside.) 

Rowley. I'll tell him how impatiently you ex- 
pect him. 

Joseph. Do, do; pray give my best duty and 
affection. Indeed I cannot express the sensation 
I feel at the thought of seeing him. (Exit Row- 
ley.) Certainly his coming just at this time is the 
cruellest piece of ill fortune ! 



SCENE VI. 

SIR OLIVER SURF ACE and JOSEPH SURFACE. 

Joseph. Gad's life, Mr. Stanley, why have you 
come back to plague me at this time? You must 
not stay now, upon my word* 

Sir Oliver. Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is 
expected here; and though he has been so penu- 
rious to you, I'll try what he'll do for me. 

Joseph. Sir, "tis impossible for you to stay now, 
so I must beg — Come any other time, and I pro- 
mise you, you shall be assisted. 

Sir Oliver. No: Sir Oliver and I must be ac- 
quainted. 



Q64 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Joseph. Zounds, sir, then I insist on your quit- 
ting the room directly ! 

Sir Oliver. Nay, sir — 

Joseph. Sir, I insist on't: here, William, show 
this gentleman out. Since you compel me, sir, 
not one moment — this is such insolence ! (Going 
to push him out.) 

Enter CHARLES SURFACE. 

Charles. Hey-day! what's the matter new! What 
the deuce, have you got hold of my little broker 
here? Zounds, brother, don't hurt little Premium. 
What's the matter, my little fellow? 

Joseph. So, he has been with you, too, has he? 

Charles. To be sure he has. Why he's as ho- 
nest a little — But sure, Joseph, you have not been 
borrowing money, too, have you? 

Joseph. Borrowing! no. But brother, you know 
we expect Sir Oliver here every — 

Charles. O Gad, that's true. Noll mustn't 
find the little broker here, to be sure. 

Joseph. Yet, Mr. Stanley insists — 

Charles. Stanley! Why his name's Premium. 

Joseph. No, sir, Stanley. 

Charles. No, no, Premium. 

Joseph. Well, no matter which, but — 

Charles. Ay, ay, Stanley or Premium, 'tis 
the same thing, as you say ; for I suppose he goes 
by half a hundred names, besides A. B. at the 
coffee-house. (Knocking.) 

Joseph. 'Sdeath ! here's Sir Oliver at the door. 
Now I beg, Mr. Stanley — 

Charles. Ay, ay, and I beg, Mr. Premium — 

Sir Oliver. Gentlemen — 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 265 

Joseph. Sir, by heavens you shall go. 
Charles. Ay, out with him, certainly. 
Sir Oliver. This violence — 
Joseph. Sir, 'tis your own fault. 
Charles. Out with him, to be sure. (Both far- 
cins Sir Oliver out.) 

. Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE and ROWLEY. 

Sir Peter. My old friend, Sir Oliver — bey! 
What in the name of wonder — here are dutiful 
nephews — assault their uncle at their first visit! 

Rowley. Indeed, Sir Oliver! 'twas well Ave came 
in to rescue you — for I perceive the character 
of old Stanley was no protection. 

Sir Oliver. Nor of Premium either: the neces- 
sities of the former could not extort a shilling 
from that benevolent gentleman; and now, egad, 
I stood a chance of faring worse than my ances- 
tors, and being knocked down without being bid 
for. 

Joseph. Charles! 

Charles. Joseph ! 

Joseph. 'Tis now complete ! r 

.Charles. Very! 

Sir Oliver. Sir Peter, my friend, and Rowley 
too — - look on that elder nephew of mine. You 
know what he has already received from my 
bounty ; and you also know how gladly I would 
have regarded half my fortune as held in trust 
for him: judge then my disappointment in dis- 
covering him to be destitute of faith, equity, and 
gratitude. 

Charles. If they talk this way to honesty, what 
will they say to me, by and by? (Aside.) 

M 



Q66 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Sir Oliver. As for that prodigal, his brother — 

Charles. Ay, now comes my turn; the cursed 
family pictures will ruin me. (Aside.) 

Joseph. Sir Oliver — uncle — will you honour 
me with a hearing? I — 

Charles. Now, if Joseph would make one of 
his long speeches, I might recollect myself a little. 
(Aside.) 

Sir Peter. I suppose you would undertake to 
justify yourself entirely. (To Joseph.) 

Joseph. I trust, I could. 

Sir Oliver. Well, sir! — And you could justify 
yourself too, I suppose. 

Charles. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver. 

Sir Oliver. What! Little Premium has been 
let too much into the secret, I suppose? 

Charles. True, sir; but they were family se- 
crets , and should not be mentioned again , you 
know. 

Piowley. Come Sir Oliver, I know you cannot 
speak of Charles's follies with anger. 

Sir Oliver. Odd's heart, no more I can; nor 
with gravity either. Sir Peter, do you know, the 
rogue bargained with me for all his ancestors; 
sold me judges and generals by the foot, and 
maiden aunts as cheap as broken china. 

Charles. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make 
a little free with the family canvas, that's the 
truth on't. My ancestors may rise in judgment 
against me, there's no denying it; but believe me 
sincere when I tell you — and upon my soul I would 
not say so if I was not—that if I do not appear 
mortified at the exposure of my follies, it is be- 
cause I feel at this moment the warmest satisfac- 
tion in seeing you, my liberal benefactor. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 267 

Sir Oliver. Charles, I believe you; give me 
your hand again: the ill-looking little fellow over 
the settee has made your peace. 

Charles. Then, sir, my gratitude to the origi- 
nal is still encreased. 

Sheridan. 



SCENE FROM EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR. 



DRAMATIS PEBSOiYJE. 

BOBADILL, a type for the mean, shuffling, lying, 
biagging coward in regimentals. 
MATTHEW, his dupe. 
EDWARD KNOWELL, 
DOWN BIGHT. 



MATTHEW, ED. KNOWELL, BOBADILL, DOWNRIGHT, (to them.) 

E. Kno. We were speaking of Mr. Wellbred's 
half brother : captain Bohadill tells me he is fal- 
len! foul of you too. 

Mat. O, aye, sir, he threatened me with the 
bastinado. 

Bob. Aye, but I think, I taught you prevention, 
this morning, for that. You shall kill him beyond 
question if you be so generously minded. 

Mat. Indeed, it is a most excellent trick! 

Bob. O, you do not give spirit enough to your 
motion, you are too tardy, too heavy ! 0, it must 
be done like lightning, hay? (He practices at a 
vost.) 



268 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Mat. Rare captain! 

Bob. Tut, 'tis nothing, an't be not done in a — 
punto! 

E. Kno. Captain, did you ever prove yourself 
upon any of our masters of defence here? 

Mat. good sir ! yes I hope he has. 

Bob. I will tell you, sir. Upon my first coming* 
to the city, after my long travel, for knowledge 
(in that mystery only) there came three or four 
of 'em to me, at a gentleman's house, where it 
was my chance to be resident at that time , to 
entreat my presence at their schools; and withal 
so much importuned me, that (I protest to you, as 
I am a gentleman) I was ashamed of their rude 
demeanour out of all measure: well, I told 'em 
that to come to a public school, they should 
pardon me , it was opposite (in diameter) to my 
humour^ but, if so be they would give their at- 
tendance at my lodging , I protested to do , them 
what right or favour I could, as I was a gentle- 
man, and so forth. 

E. Kno. So, sir, then you tried their skill. 

Bob. Alas, soon tried! you shall hear; sir, with- 
in two or three days after, they came; and, by 
honesty, fair sir, believe me, I graced them ex- 
ceedingly, showed them some two or three tricks 
of prevention, have purchased 'em since a credit 
to admirationj they cannot deny this: and yet now 
they hate me, and why? because I am excellent, 
and for no other vile reason on earth. 

E. Kno. This is strange and barbarous, as ever 
I heard! 

Bob. Nay , for a more instance of their pre- 
posterous natures , but note , sir. They have as- 
saulted me some three, four, five, six of them to- 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. °269 

gether, as I have walked alone in divers skirts^ 
i' the town, as Turn-bull^ White-chapel, Shore-ditch, 
which were then my quarters; and since upon 
the Exchange, at my lodging; and at my ordi- 
nary: where I have driven them afore me the 
whole length of a street^ in the open view of all 
our gallants, pitying to hurt them, believe me. Yet 
all this lenity will not overcome their spleen; they 
will be doing with the ant, raising a hill a man 
may spurn abroad with his foot, at pleasure. By 
myself I could have slain them all, but I delight 
not in murder. I am loth to bear any other than 
this bastinado for ; em : yet I hold it good polity 
not to go disarm'd, for though I be skilful, I may 
be oppress'd with multitudes. 

E. Kno. Aye, believe me, may you sir, and 
(in my conceit) our whole nation should sustain 
the loss by it, if it were so. 

Bob. Alas, no: what's a peculiar man to a na- 
tion? not seen. 

E. Kno. 0! but your skill, sir. 

Bob. Indeed, that might be some loss; but who 
respects it? I will tell you, sir, by the way of 
private, and under seal; I am a gentleman, and 
live here obscure and to niyself. but were I known 
to her majesty and the lords (observe me) I would 
undertake (upon this poor head and life) for the 
public benefit of the state, not only to spare the 
entire lives of her subjects in general; but to save 
the one half, nay, three parts of her yearly charge 
in holding war, and against what enemy soever. 
And hoAV would I do it, think you? 

E. Kno. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive. 

Bob. Why thus, sir: I would select nineteen 
more, to myself, throughout the land; gentlemen 



270 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

they should be of good spirit, strong and able con- 
stitution, I would choose them by an instinct, a 
character that I have ; and I would teach these 
nineteen the special rule, as your punto, your 
reservo, your imbroccato, your passada, your 
montanto; till they could all play very near, or 
altogether as well as myself. This done, say 
the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty 
would come into the field, the tenth of March or 
thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of 
the enemy, they could not in their honour refuse 
us well; we would kill them; challenge twenty 
more, kill them; twenty more, kill them; twenty 
more, kill them too; and thus we would kill every 
man his twenty a day, that's twenty score; twenty 
score, that's two hundred; two hundred a day, 
five days a thousand; forty thousand; forty times 
five, five times forty, two hundred days kill them 
all by computation. And this will I venture my 
poor gentleman-like carcass to perform, provided 
there be no treason practised upon us, by fair and 
discreet manhood; and this is civilly by the sword. 

E. Kno. Why are you so sure of your hand, 
captain, at all times. 

Bob. Tut, never miss thrust, upon my reputa- 
tion with you. 

E. Kno. I would not stand in Downright's 
state then, an'you meet him, for the wealth of 
any one street in London. 

Bob. Why, sir, you mistake me! if he were 
here now, by this welkin, I would not draw my 
weapon on him! let this gentleman do his mind; 
but I will bastinado him (by the bright sun) 
wherever I meet him. 

Mat. Faith, and I'll have a fling at him, at 
my distance. 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 271 

E. Kno. God so, look where he is; yonder 
he goes. 

(Downright walks over the stage.) 

Down. What peevish luck have I; I cannot meet 
with those bragging rascals. 

Bob- It's not he? is it? 

E. Kno. Yes faith, it is he. 

Mat. I'll be hanged then if that were he. 

E. Kno. Sir, keep your hanging good for some 
greater matter: for I assure you that was he. 

Bob. Had I thought it had been he, he must 
not have gone so: but I can hardly be induced 
to believe it was he yet. 

E. Kno. That I think, sir: But see, he is come 
again. 

Down. Pharaoh's foot, have 1 found you? 
Come j draw to your tools; draw gypsie, or Fll 
thrash you. 

Bob. Gentleman of valour, I do believe in thee, 
hear me — 

Down. Draw your weapon then. 

Bob. Tall man, I never thought on it till now: 
(body of me) I had a warrant of the peace ser- 
ved on me, even now as I came along, by a 
water-bearer: this gentleman saw it, Mr. Matthew. 

Down. 'Sdeath, you will not draw then? 
(He beats him and disarms him, Matthew runs away.) 

Bob. Hold, hold, under thy favour forbear. 

Down. Prate again, as you like this, you, foist 
you. YouTl controul the point, you? your con- 
sort is gone? had he staid he had shared with 
you, sir. 

Bob. Well, gentlemen, bear witness, I was 
bound to the peace, by this good day. 



272 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

E. Kno. No faith, it's an ill day, captain, never 
reckon it other; but, say you were bound to the 
peace, the law allows you to defend yourself: 
that'll prove but a poor excuse. 

Bob. I cannot tell, sir. I desire good instruc- 
tion, in fair sort. I never sustained the like dis- 
grace, (by heaven) sure I was struck with a pla- 
net thence , for I had no power to touch my 
weapon. 

E. Kno. Aye , like enough , I have heard of 
many that have been beaten under a planet: go, 
get you to a surgeon! Slid, an these be your 
tricks, your passadoes, and your montantoes, I'll 
none of them. O manners! that this age should 
bring forth such creatures ! that nature should be 
at leisure^ to make 'em! Come, coz. 

Ben, Jons on. 



SCENE FROM HENRY IV. 



DRAMATIS PEBSONjE. 

THE PRINCE OF WALES. 
POINS, 



FALSTAFF , f 7 r 
GADSHILL, to <<ompamons. 

BARDOLF ) 



The young prince Henry, afterwards Henry V, has fallen into 
dissolute company, and has given way to the most abandonned 
courses. Amongst the companions of his pleasures is a fat old 
man, Sir John Falslafj, who is about 60 years of age, and has 
grown grey in every species of iniquity. In those lawless days, it 
should seem that robberies were sometimes committed on the high- 
way, by persons whose rank should have taught them better. Fal- 
staff, together with his friends, are now about to enter on such 
an expedition, and they propose to the Prince to join them. He at 
first refuses, until Poins explains to him, that if he will go, he 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 273 

has a plan in bis head which will produce much mirth. He pro- 
poses that Falstaff, who is an arrant coward, and no stickler at 
truth, together with three others, should commit the rohbery; whilst 
the Prince and himself, having first disguised themselves, so as 
not to be known by the others, should remain at a short distance, 
concealed behind a hedge. As soon as the travellers are thus re- 
lieved of their purses, Poins and the Prince are to fall upon their 
companions, and rob them in their turn. «The virtue of this jest 
will be, » as Poins says, «the incomprehensible lies that this same 
fat rogue will tell us, when we meet at supper; how thirty at 
least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities 
he endured; and, in the reproof of this lies the jest. »» 



SCENE, AFTER THE ROBBERY - A TAVERN. 

The Prince and Poins, Falstaff, Gadshill, 
Peto and Bardolf. 

Poins. Welcome Jack. Where hast thou been? 

Fals. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a 
vengeance too! marry, and amen! Give me a cup 
of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, Fll sow 
nether socks, and mend them, and foot them too. 
A plague of all cowards ! Give me a cup of sack, 
rogue. Is there no virtue extant? (He drinks.) 
You rogue, here's lime in this sack too. There 
is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous 
man. Yet a coward is worse than a cup of 
sack with lime in it; a villainous coward. Go thy 
ways, old Jack, die when thou wilt, if manhood, 
good manhood , be not forgot upon the face of 
the earth, then I am a shotten herring. There live 
not three good men unhang'd in England; and 
one of them is fat and grows old. God help the 
while ! a bad world , I say ! I would I were a 
weaver; I could sing all manner of songs: a plague 
of all cowards, I say still. 

P. Henry. How now , wool-sack ! what mut- 
ter you? 

35 



274 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Fals. A king's son? If I do not beat thee 
out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath; and 
drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of 
wild geese, Til never wear hair on my face more. 
You prince of Wales! 

P. Henry. Why, what's the matter? 

Fals. Are you not a coward? answer that; 
and Poins there ? (To Poins.) 

P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an ye call me cow- 
ard, Iil stab thee. 

Fals. I call thee coward? I'll see thee damn'd 
ere I call thee coward; but I would give a thou- 
sand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. 
You are strait enough in the shoulders, you care 
not who sees your back. Call you that backing 
of your friends? A plague upon such backing! 
Give me them that will face me. Give me a 
cup of sack: I am a rogue if I drank to-day. 

P. Henry. villain! thy lips are scarce wip'd 
since thou drunk'dst last. 

Fals. All's one for that. A plague of all cow- 
ards, still I say! {He drinks.) What's the mat- 
ter? here be four of us have ta'en a thousand 
pound this morning. 

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack? where is it? 

Fals. Where is it? taken from us it is: a hun- 
dred upon poor four of us. 

P. Henry. What, a hundred, man? 

Fals. I am a rogue, if I were not at half 
sword with a dozen of them two hours together. 
I have ecap'd by miracle. I am 'sight times thrust 
through the doublet; four through the hose; my 
buckler cut through; my sword hack'd like a hand 
saw: ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was 
a man; all would not do. A plague of all cow- 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 275 

ards? Let them speak: if they speak more or 
less than truth, they are villains, and the sons 
of darkness. 

P. Henry. Speak, sirs, How was it? 

Gads. We four set upon some dozen, — 

Fals. Sixteen, at least, my lord. 

Gads. And hound them. 

Peto. No, no, they were not bound, — 

Fals. You rogue, they were bound, every man 
of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. 

Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven 
fresh men set upon us, — 

Fals. And unbound the rest, and then came 
in the other. 

P. Henry. What, fought you with them all ? 

Fals. All? I know not what you call all, 
but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a 
bunch of raddish : if there were not two or three 
and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two 
legg'd creature. 

PoiNS. Pray heaven, you have not murder'd 
some of them. 

Fals. Nay, that's past praying for; I have pep- 
per'd two of them : two', I am sure, I have pay'd; 
two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, 
Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me 
horse. Thou know'st my old ward; — here I lay, 
and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buck- 
ram let drive at me, — 

P Henry. What, four? thou saidst but two, 
even now. 

Fals. Four, Hal; I told thee four. 

Poins. Aye , aye , he said four. 

Fals. These four came all a-front, and mainly 



276 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took 
all their seven points in my target, thus. 

P. Henry. Seven? why, there were but four, 
even now. 

Fals. In buckram. 

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. 

Fals. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain 
else. 

P. Henry. I pray thee, let him alone; we shall 
have more anon. {Aside.) 

Fals. Dost thou hear me, Hal? 

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. 

Fals. Do so, for it is worth the list'ning to. 
These nine in buckram that I told thee of, began 
to give me ground. But I follow'd me close, came 
in foot and hand; and, with a thought, seven of 
the eleven I pay'd. 

P. Henry. O monstrous; eleven buckram men 
grown out of two! 

Fals. But as the devil would have it_, three 
knaves in Kendal green, came at my back, and 
let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that 
thou couldst not see thy hand. 

P. Henry. These lies are like the father that 
begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. 
Why, thou knotty-pated fool, thou greasy tallow 
keech ! — 

Fals. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is 
not the truth, the truth? 

P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these 
men in Kendal green, when^ it was so dark, 
thou couldst not see thy hand! come tell us your 
reason. What sayst thou to this? 

Poins Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. 

Fals. What upon compulsion? No, were I at the 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 277 

strappado, or at all the racks in the world, I would 
not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on 
compulsion ! if reasons were as plenty as black- 
berries, I would give no man a reason upon com- 
pulsion, I. 

P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin: 
this sanguine coward, this horse back breaker, this 
huge hill of flesh; — 

Fals. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you 
dry'd neat's tongue; you stock-fish, O, for breath 
to utter what is like thee! — you taylor's yard, 
you sheath,, you bow-case 

P. Henry. Well^ breathe a while, and then 
to it again: and when thou hast tir'd thyself in 
base comparisons, hear me speak this. 

Poins. Mark, Jack. 

P. Henry. We two saw you four set on four; you 
bound thenr, and were masters of their wealth. — 
Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. 
Then did we two set on you four; and with a 
word, out fac'd you from your prize, and have 
it: yea, and can show it you here in the house; 
and, Falstaff, you carry'd yourself away as nimbly, 
with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, 
and still ran and roar'd , as ever I heard a bull- 
calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword 
as thou hast done; and then say, it was in fight? 
What trick, what device, what starting hole^ canst 
thou now find out, to hide thee from this open 
and apparent shame? 

Poms. Come, let's hear Jack; what trick hast 
thou now? 

Fals. By the Lord, I knew ye. Why, hear 
ye, my masters : Was it for me, to kill the heir 
apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? 



278 SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Why? thou knowst I am as valiant as Hercules: 
hut beware instinct ! the lion will not touch the 
true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a 
coward on instinct. I shall think the better of 
myself, and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant 
lion, and thee for a true prince. But lads, I am 
glad you have the money.— Hostess, clap to the 
doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, 
lads, boys, hearts of gold. All the titles of good 
fellowship come to you ! What, shall we be merry? 
shall we have a play ex tempore ! 

P. Henry. Content; — and the argument shall 
be, thy running away. 

Fals. Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou 
lov'st me. 

Shakspeare. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRy 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY 



DESCRIPTION OF AN EPIGRAM. 

An Epigram should be, if right, 

Short, simple, pointed, keen , and bright ; 

A lively little thing : 
Like wasp , with taper body , bound 
By lines — not many , neat and round , 

All ending in a sting. 



FORGETFULNESS 



When Jack was poor , the lad was frank and free j 
Of late he's grown brimful! of pride and pelf; 

You wonder that he don't remember me; 
Why so ? You see he has forgot himself. 



ADVANTAGE OF SILENCE, 

Young Courtly takes me for a dunce , 
For all night long I spoke not once ; 
On better grounds I think him such , 
He spoke but once , yet once too much 



A RETORT. 



A haughty courtier , meeting in the streets 
A scholar , him thus insolently greets : 
« Base men to take the wall I ne'er permit ; » 
The scholar said, « I do, » and gave him it, 

36 



282 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

OBLIGATION CANCELLED. 

To John I owed great obligation, 
But John unhappily thought fit 

To publish it to all the nation — 

Sure John and I are more than quit 



KILLING TIME. 



Old Time kills us all , 

Rich , poor , great and small ; 
And 'tis therefore we rack our invention , 

Throughout all our days , 

In finding out ways 
To kill him by way of prevention. 



ON A COMPASS. 



The needle quivering from its pole , 

Drawn by each worthless nail , 
Is a true emblem of the soul , 

When passion's powers prevail. 
Plung'd in attractive pleasure's course , 

It fondly sweeps along ; 
But touch'd with virtue's magnet force , 

It trembles, doing wrong. 



ON A BEE STIFLED IN HONEY. 

From flow'r to flow'r, with eager pains, 
See the bless'd busy lab'rer fly ; 

When all that from her toil she gains , 
Is in the sweets she hoards , to die. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 283 

5 Tis thus , would man the truth believe , 
With life's soft sweets , each fav'rite joy j 

tf we taste wisely , they relieve , 
But if we plunge too deep, destroy. 



BE ROUGH WITH THE ROUGH. 

Tender-handed stroke a nettle, 

And it stings you for your pains ; 
Grasp it like a man of mettle , 

-And it soft as silk remains. 
'Tis the same with common natures^ 

Use 'em kindly , they rebel ; 
But be rough as nutmeg graters, 

And the rogues obey } ? ou well. 



ON WASTE. 



Oh , waste thou not the smallest thing 

Created by divinity ; 
For grains of sand the mountains make , 

And atomies infinity. 
Waste thou not then the smallest time^ 

'Tis imbecile infirmity ; 
For well thou know'st , if aught thou know'st, 

That seconds form eternity. 



ON CONTENT, 



It is not youth can give content , 
Nor is it wealth's decree ; 

It is a gift from heaven sent, 
Though not to thee or me , 

It is not in the monarch's crown , 
Though he'd give millions for't f 



284 SELECT PIECES OF POETR* , 

It dwells not in his lordship's frown, 
Or waits on him to court. 

It is not in a coach and six, 
It is not in a garter ; 

'Tis not in love or politics , 
Bat 'tis in John the carter 



Wat*s< 



TIT FOR TAT. 



Said Cynic j in a testy mood , 

« Well, since the public is so rude 

« To laugh at me and mine ; 
k I'll laugh at all that laugh at me, 
« And so with them I'll even be, 

(( And pay them in their coin. » 

A dry philosopher sate by, 

And straightway made him this reply i 

« For all that surly frown , 
« If what you've said just now be true , 
ft You laugh at all that laugh at you i 

<c You're the merriest blade in town, w 



THE SLUGGARD, 

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, 
tc You have wak'd me too soon , I must slumber again. >J 
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, 
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. 

« A little more sleep , and a little more slumber ; >> 

Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without number j 

And when he gets up , he sits folding his hands , 

Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands. 

I pass'd by his garden , and saw the wild briar , 
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher \ 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY , 285 

The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, 
And his money still wastes ., till he starves or he begs. 

I paid him a visit , still hoping to find 

That he took belter care for improving his mind ; 

He told me his dreams , talk'd of eating and drinking , 

But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking 

Said I then to my heart , « Here's a lesson for me ; 
That man's but a picture of what I might be; 
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding ? 
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading. » 



THE ANT. 

These emmets , how little they are in our eyes ! 
We tread them to dust , and a troop of them dies , 

Without our regard or concern s 
Yet , as wise as we are , if we went to their school , 
There's many a sluggard , and many a fool , 

Some lessons of wisdom might learn, 

They don't wear their time out in sleeping or play , 
But gather up corn in a sun-shiny day ; 

And for winter they lay up their stores : 
They manage their work in such regular forms , 
One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms , 

And so brought their food within doors. 

But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant , 
If I take not due care for the things I shall want, 

Nor provide against dangers in time. 
When death or old age shall stare in my face , 
What a wretch I shall be in the end of my days 5 

If I trifle away all their prime ! 

Now 5 now , while my strength and my youth are in bloom , 
Let me think what will serve me when darkness shall come , 
And pray that my sins be forgiv'n ; 



286 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Let me read in good books , and believe and obey , 
That , when death turns me out of this cottage of clay , 
I may dwell in a palace in heav'n. 

Watts. 



THE MONKEY WHO HAD SEEN THE WORLD. 

A monkey , to reform the times , 
Resolv'd to visit foreign climes ; 
For men in distant regions roam , 
To bring politer manners home. 
So forth he fares , all toil defies : 
Misfortune serves to make us wise. 

At length the treacherous snare was laid ; 
Poor Pug was caught , to town convey'd , 
There sold. How envied was his doom ! 
Made captive in a lady's room ! 
Proud as a lover of his chains , 
He day by day her favour gains. 
Whene'er the duty of the day 
The toilet calls, with mimic play 
He twirls her knots, he cracks her fan, 
Like any other gentleman. 
In visits, loo, his parts and wit, 
When jest grew dull , were sure to hit. 
Proud with applause , he thought his mind 
In every courtly art refin'd ; 
Like Orpheus , burned with public zeal , 
To civilize the monkey-weal : 
So watch'd occasion, broke his chain. 
And sought his native woods again. 

The hairy sylvans round him press , 
Astonished at his strut and dress. 
Some praise bis sleeve, and others glote 
Upon his rich embroidered coat ; 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 287 

His dapper perriwig commending , 
With the black tail behind depending , 
His powder'd back , above , below , 
Like hoary frost , or fleecy snow ; 
But all, with envy and desire, 
His flutt'ring shoulder-knot admire. 

« Hear and improve , » he pertly cries ; 
a I come to make a nation wise. 
« Weigh your own worth , support your place , 
«. The next in rank to human race, 
a In cities long I pass'd my days , 
« Convers'd with men, and learn'd their ways. 
a Their dress , their courtly manners see ; 
a Reform your state , and copy me. 
« Seek you to thrive ? in flatt'ry deal ; 
« Your scorn, your hate, with that conceal. 
« Seem only to regard your friends ; 
(( But use them for your private ends. 
a Stint not to truth the flow of wit ; 
« Be prompt to lie whene'er 'tis fit. 
a Bend all your force to spatter merit ; 
<c Scandal is conversation's spirit. 
k Boldly to every thing attend , 
« And men your talents shall commend. 
cc I knew the great. Observe me right ; 
«. So shall you grow, like men, polite. » 

He spoke and bow'd. With muttering jaws 
The wond'ring circle grinn'd applause. 
Now warm with malice , envy , spite , 
Their most obliging friends they bite ; 
And fond to copy human ways, 
Practise new mischief all their days. 

Thus the dull lad, too tall for school, 
With travel finishes the fool; 
Studious of every coxcomb's airs, 



088 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

He drinks , games , dresses , lies , and swears | 
O'erlooks with scorn all virtuous arts, 
For vice is Cited to bis parts. 

Gay. 



THE YOUNG LADY AND THE LOOKING-GLASS, 

There was a little stubborn dame, 
Whom no authority could tame; 
Restive by long indulgence grown , 
No will she minded but her own : 
At trifles oft she'd scold and fret, 
Then in a corner take a seat ; 
And, sourly moping all the day, 
Disdain alike to work or play. 

Papa all softer arts had tried , 
And sharper remedies applied; 
But both were vain ; for every course 
He took, still made her worse and worse.. 
"'Tis strange to think how female wit 
So oft should make a lucky hit; 
When man , with all his high pretence 
To deeper judgment, sounder sense, 
Will err, and measures false pursue — 
'Tis very strange , I own , but true. 
Mamma observ'd the rising lass 
By stealth retiring to the glass , 
To practise little arts unseen , 
In the true genius of thirteen ■; 
On this a deep design she laid , 
To tame the humour of the maid > 
Contriving, like a prudent mother, 
To make one folly cure another. 
Upon the wall against the seat 
Which Jessy us'd for her retreat , 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Whene'er by accident offended , 

A looking-glass was straight suspended ; 

That it might show her how deform'd 

She look'd, and frightful, when she storm'd 

And warn her, as she priz'd her beauty, 

To bend her humour to her duty. 

All this the looking-glass achiev'd , 

Its threats were minded and believ'd. 

The maid, who spurn'd at all advice, 
Grew tame and gentle, in a trice; 
So , when all other means had fail'd , 
The silent monitor prevail'd. 

Wilkie. 



289 



THE CHAxMELEON. 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 

A proud conceited talking spark , 

With eyes that hardly serv'd at most 

To guard their master 'gainst a post ; 

Yet round the world the blade has been , 

To see whatever could be seen : 

Returning from his finish'd tour, 

Grown ten limes perjter than before , 

Whatever word you chance to drop , 

The travell'd fool your mouth will stop : 

« Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — 

a I've seen — and sure I ought to know, n 

So begs you'd pay a due submission , 

And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast , 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd , 
And on their way , in friendly chat , 
Now talk'd of this , and then of that ; 
Discours'd awhile , 'mongst other matter , 

3? 



290 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Of the chameleon's form and nature. 

« A stranger animal , » cries one , 

« Sure never liv'd beneath the sun : 

(( A lizard's body, lean and long, 

u A fish's head , a serpent's tongue ; 

(( Its tooth with triple claw disjoin 'd, 

« And what a length of tail behind! 

« How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 

« Whoever saw so fine a blue ? » 

« Hold there , » the other quick replies , 
« 'Tis green — I saw it with these eyes, 
« As late with open m#ulh it lay , 
« And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; 
« Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd. 
« And saw it eat the air for food. » 

« I've seen it , sir , as well as you , 
« And must again affirm it blue; 
« At leisure I the beast survey 'd , 
« Extended in the cooling shade. » 

« 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye. » 
u Green ! » cries the other in a fury — 
a Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?)) 
« 'Twere no great loss, » the friend replies; 
« For if they always serve you thus , 
« You'll find them of but little use. » 

So high at last the contest rose, 
From words they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third — 
To him the question they referr'd ; 
And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew, 
Whether the thing was green or blue. 

« Sirs 3 » cries the umpire , « cease your pother 
a The creature's neither one nor t'other ; 
« I caught the animal last night , 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 291 

ft And view'd it o'er by candle-light ; 

« I mark'd it well — 'twas black as jet — 

ft You stare — ■ but , sirs , I've got it yet , 

ft And can produce it. » — « Pray, sir, do: 

ft I'll lay my life the thing is blue. » 

ft And I'll be sworn that when you've seen 

ft The reptile ? you'll pronounce him green. » 

ft Well then , at once to ease the doubt , » 
Replies the man , a I'll turn him out ; 
« And when before your eyes I've set him , 
« If you don't find him black , I'll eat him. )> 

He said ; then full before their sight 
Produc'd the beast, and lo — 'twas white. 
Both star'd ; the man look'd wond'rous wise ■ — 
« My children , » the chameleon cries 
(Then first the creature found a tongue) 
« You all are right , and all are wrong : 
« When next you talk of what you view , 
(c Think others see as well as you : 
ft Nor wonder if you find that none 
ft Prefers your eyesight to his own. 

Merrick. 



THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man , 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door. 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 

Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store. 

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak ; 

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years : 
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek 

Has been the channel to a flood of tears. 



292 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Yon house , erected on Ihe rising ground , 

With tempting aspect , drew me from my road ; 

For plenty there a residence has found , 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 

Here , as I crav'd a morsel of their bread , 
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door, 

To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. 

Oh, take me to your hospitable dome; 

Keen blows the wind , and piercing is the cold ; 
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb , 

For I am poor and miserably old ! 

Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast , 

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, 
And tears of pity would not be repress'd. 

Heav'n sends misfortune ; why should we repine ? 

Tis heav'n has brought me to the stale you see ; 
And your condition may be soon like mine, 

The child of sorrow and of misery. 

A little farm was my paternal lot., 

Then , like the lark , I sprightly hail'd the morn 
But ah ! oppression forc'd me from my cot ; 

My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. 

My daughter , once the comfort of my age , 
Lur'd by a villain from her native home , 

Is cast abandoVd on the world's wide stage , 
And doomMin scanty poverty to roam. 

My tender wife , sweet soother of my care ! 

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, 
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair, 

And left the world to wretchedness and me. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. ^93 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man , 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door , 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span , 

Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store ! 



WE ARE SEVEN. 



A simple child, 

That lightly draws its breath , 
And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage girl : 

She was eight years old , she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 

That cluster'd round her head . 

She had a rustic , woodland air , 

And she was wildly clad ; 
Her eyes were fair , and very fair ; 

Her beauty made me glad. 

« Sisters and brothers , little maid , 

<c How many may you be ? » 
« How many ? Seven in all , » she said , 

And wondering look'd at me. 

« And where are they? I pray you, tell. » 
She answered , « Seven are we ; 

« And two of us at Conway dwell , 
« And two are gone to sea. 

« Two of us in the church-yard lie , 

« My sister and my brother ; 
« And in the church-yard cottage , I 

« Dwell near them with my mother. » 



291 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



<( You say that two at Conway dwell , 

(( And two are gone to sea , 
<c Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you , tell 

u Sweet maid, how this may be. » 

Then did the little maid reply, 

a Seven boys and girls are we : 
« Two of us in the church-yard lie , 

(c Beneath the church-yard tree. » 

<( You run about , my little maid , 

« Your limbs they are alive ; 
« If two are in the church-yard laid , 

a Then ye are only five. » 

u Their graves are green , they may be seen , » 

« The little maid replied ; 
« Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 

« And they are side by side. 

« The first that died was little Jane; 

« In bed she moaning lay, 
« Till God releas'd her of her pain , 

« And then she went away. 

« So in the church -yard she was laid; 

« And all the summer dry, 
« Together round her grave we play'd , 

« My brother John and I. 

(( And when the ground was white with snow, 

<( And I could run and slide , 
« My brother John was forcd to go, 

(( And he lies by her side. )> 

« How many are you , then , » said I , 

« If they two are in heaven ? » 
The little maiden did reply , 

(c Oh , master ! we are seven ! » 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 295 

«But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 

« Their spirits are in heaven ! » 
'Twas throwing words away : for still 

The little maid would have her will , 
And said , « Nay , we are seven ! » 

Wordsworth. 



THE COMMON LOT. 

Once in the flight of ages past 

There lived a man ; — and who was he P 
Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast , 

That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth, 

The land in which he died unknown ; 

His name has perished from the earth, 
This truth survives alone : — 

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
Alternate triumph'd in his breast ; 

His bliss and woe , — a smile , a tear ; 
Oblivion hides the rest. 

The bounding pulse , the languid limb , 
The changing spirits rise and fall ; 

We know that these were felt by him , 
For these are felt by all. 

He suffer'd — but his pangs are o'er ; 

Enjoy'd — but his delights are fled; 
Had friends ■ — his friends are now no more 

And foes — his foes are dead. 

He lov'd - — but whom he lov'd , the grave 
Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 

she was fair ! — but none could save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 



296 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encounter'd all that troubles thee; 
He was — whatever thou hast been ; 

He is - — what thou shalt be. 

The rolling seasons, day and nigtrt , 

Sun, moon and stars, the earth and main , 

Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams , o'er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw , 

Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race; 

Their ruins since the world began, 
Of him afford no other trace 

Than this , ■ — there lived a man. 

Montgomery 



THE SULTANA'S REMONSTRANCE. 

It suits thee well to weep , 

As thou look'st on the fair land , 

Whose sceptre thou hast held , 
With less than woman's hand. 

On yon bright city gaze, 

With its white and marble halls , 
The glory of its lofty towers, 

The strength of its proud walls. 

And look to yonder palace, 
With its garden of rose , 
With groves and silver fountains , 
Fit for a king's r?pose. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY, 297 

There is weeping in that city, 

And a cry of woe and shame , 
There's a whisper of dishonour, 

And that whisper is thy name. 

And the stranger's feast is spread, 

But it is no feast of thine ; 
In thine own halls, accursed lips 

Drain the forbidden wine. 

And aged men are in the streets 

Who mourn their length of days, 
And young knights stand with folded arms, 

And eyes they dare not raise. 

There is not one whose blood was not 

As the waves of ocean free; 
Their fathers died for thy fathers, 

They would have died for thee. 

Weep not, 'tis mine to weep, 

That ever thou wert born , 
Alas , that all a mother's love 

Is lost in a queen's scorn! 

Yet weep , thou less than woman weep , 

Those tears become thine eye ; 
It suits thee well to weep the land 

For which thou daredst not die. 

Miss Lakdon. 



LORD JOHN OF THE EAST. 

The fires blazed bright till deep midnight, 

And the guests sat in the hall,, 
And the lord of the feast, Lord John of the East, 

Was the merriest of them all. 

38 



298 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

His dark grey eye , that wont so sly , 

Beneath his helm to scowl , 
Flash'd keenly hright , like a new-waked sprite , 

As pass'd the circling bowl. 

In laughter light , or jocund lay, 

That voice was heard , whose sound , 

Stern, loud, and deep, in battle-fray 
Did foemen fierce astound ; 

And stretch'd so calm, like lady's palm, 

To every jester near , 
That hand which through a prostrate foe 

Oft thrust the ruthless spear. 

The gallants sang , and the goblets rang , 
And they revell'd in careless slate , 

Till a thundering sound , that shook the ground , 
Was heard at the castle gate. 

« Who knocks without , so loud and stout ? 

Some wandering knight I ween, 
Who from afar, like a guiding star, 

Our blazing hall hath seen. 

a If a stranger it be , of high degree , 
(No churl durst make such a din), 

Step forth amain, my pages twain, 
And soothiy ask him in. 

« Tell him our cheer is the forest deer , 

Our bowl is mantling high, 
And the lord of the feast is John of the East 

Who welcomes him courteously. » 

The pages twain return'd again , 
And a wild scared look had they : 

« Why look ye so ? — is it Jfriend or foe ? » 
Did the angry baron say. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 299 

« A stately knight without doth wait, 

But further he will not hie , 
Till the baron himself shall come to the gate, 

And ask him courteously. 

« By my mother's shroud he is full proud ! 

What earthly man is he? 
« I know not in truth, » quoth the trembling youth, 

<( If earthly man it be. » 

« In traveller's plight he is belight, 

With a vest of the crim'sy meet ; 
But his. mantle behind , that streams on the wind , 

Is a corse's bloody sheet. » 

« Out paltry child ! thy wits are wild , 

Thy comrade will me true : <*-- 

Say plainly , then , what hast thou seen ? 
Or dearly shalt thou rue. » 

Faint spoke the second page with fear , 

And bent him on his knee , 
« Were I on your father's sword to swear , 

The same it appear'd to me. 

Then dark , dark lower'd the baron's eye , 

And his red cheek changed to wan ; 
For again at the gate more furiously 

The thundering din began. 

« And is there ne'er of my vassals here , 

Of high or low degree , 
That will unto this stranger go — 

Will go for the love of me ? » 

Then spoke and said fierce Donald the red - - 

(A fearless man was he), 
<( Yes , I will straight to the castle-gate , 

Lord John, for the love of thee. » ' 



30d Select pieces of poetry. 

With heart full stout he hied him out , 

While silent all remain i 
Nor mov'd a tongue those gallants among % 

Till Donald return'd again. 

(cOh speak,» said his lord ; «by thy hopes of grace; 

What stranger must we hail?)) 
But the haggard look of Donald's face 

Made his faltering words to fail. 

<( It is a knight in some foreign guise — , 

His like I did never behold ; 
For the stony look of his beamless eyes 

Make my very life-blood cold. 

«Oh such a tone did tongue ne'er own 

That dwelt in mortal head ; 
It is like a sOilnd from the hollow ground — - 

Like the voice of the coffin'd dead. 

(( I bade him to your social board ; 

But in he will not hie i 
Until at the gate this castle's lord 

Shall entreat him courteously. 

((And he stretched him the while, with a ghastly smile? 

And sternly bade me say , 
'Twas no depute's task your guest to ask 
To the feast of the woody bay. » 

Pale grew the baron , and faintly said, 
As he heav'd his breath with pain — 

« From such a feast as there was spread > 
Do any return again ? 

« I bade my guest to a bloody feast , 

When the death's wound was his fare ; 
And the isle's bright maid, who my love betray 'd j 
She tore her raven hair. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 301 

« The sea-fowl screams , and the watch-tower gleams , 

And the deafening billows roar, 
Where the unblest was put to rest 

On a wild and distant shore. 

u Do the hollow grave and 'whelming wave 

Give up their dead again ? 
Doth the surgy waste waft o'er its breast 

The spirits of the slain? » 

But his loosen'd limbs shook fast, and pour'd 

The big drop from his brow ; 
As louder still the third time roar'd 

The thundering gate below. 

« rouse thee , Baron , for manhood's worth ! 

Let good or ill befall , 
Thou must to the stranger knight go forth , 

And ask him to your hall. » 

« Rouse thy bold breast , » said each eager guest ; 

« What boots it shrinking so ? 
Be it fiend or sprite, or murder 'd knight, 

In God's name thou must go. 

« Why shouldst thou fear ; dost thou not wear 

A gift from the greatf Glendower — 
Sandals blest by a holy priest , 

O'er which nought ill hath power ? )> 

All ghastly pale did the Baron quail, 

As he turned him to the door, 
And his sandals blest by a holy priest, 

Sound feebly on the floor. 

Then back to the hall , and his merry mates all 7 

He cast his parting eye : 
fc God send thee amain safe back again ! » 

He heaved a heavy sigh. 



302 SELECT PIECES OF PEOTRY. 

Then listen'd they , on the lengthen'd way , 

To his faint and lessening tread ; 
And , when that was past , to the vailing blast , 

That vail'd as for the dead. 

But wilder it grew , and stronger it blew , 
And it rose with an elrich sound, 

Till the lofty keep on its rocky steep 
Fell hurtling to the ground. 

Each fearful eye then glanc'd on high, 

To the lofty window'd wall ; 
When a fiery trace of the Baron's face 

Thro' the casement shone on all. 

But the vision'd glare pass'd through the air , 

And the raging tempest ceas'd : 
And never more , on sea or shore , 

Was seen Lord John of the East. 

The sandals blest by a holy priest , 
Lay unscathed on the swarded green ; 

But never again, on land or main,, 
Lord John of the East was seen. 

Johanna Baillie 



MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 

Who is she , the poor maniac , whose wildly fix'd eyes 

Seem a heart overcharg'd to express? 
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ; 
She never complains, but her silence implies 

The composure of settled distress. 

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek, 

Cold and hunger awake not her care : 
Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 303 

On her poor wither 'd bosom, half bare, and her cheek 
Has the deathly pale hue of despair. 

Yet cheerful and happy , not distant the day , 

Poor Mary , the maniac , has been ; 
The trav'ller remembers , who journey 'd this way , 
No damsel so lovely , no damsel so gay , 

As Mary , the Maid of the Inn. 

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight , 

As she welcom'd them in with a smile ; 
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright , 
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night, 

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 

She lov'd , and young Richard had settled the day , 

And she hop'd to be happy for life ; 
But Richard was idle and worthless , and they 
Who knew him would pity poor Mary , and say , 

That she was too good for his wife. 

'Twas in autumn , and stormy and dark was the night, 

And fast were the windows and door ; 
Two guests sate enjoying the fire that burned bright , 
And , smoking in silence , with tranquil delight 

They listen'd to hear the wind roar. 

<c 'Tis pleasant , » cried one , « seated by the fire-side , 

(c To hear the wind whistle without. » 
« A fine night for the abbey! » his comrade replied; 
« Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried , 

a Who would wander the ruins about. 

«. I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 

« The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; 
a And could fancy I saw , half persuaded by fear , 
« Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, 

a For this wind might awaken the dead. 



304 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY, 

a I'll wager a dinner, » the other one cried, 

a That Mary would venture there now ! » 
« i hen wager and lose , » with a sneer he replied , 
« I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side , 

« And faint if she saw a white cow. » 

« Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ? » 

His companion exclaimed with a smile ; 
« I shall win , for I know she will venture there now 5 
« And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 

a From the alder that grows in the aisle. » 

With fearless good-humour did Mary comply , 

And her way to the abbey she bent ; 
The night it was dark , and the wind it was high , 
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, 

She shiver'd with cold as she went. 

O'er the path , so well known , still proceeded the maid , 

Where the abbey rose dim on the sight ; 
Through the gateway she enter'd , she felt not afraid , 
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. 

All around her was silent, save when the rude blasL 

Howl'd dismally round the old pile ; 
Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd y 
And arriv'd at the innermost ruin at last, 

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle. 

Well pleas'd did she reach it , and quickly drew near , 

And hastily gather'd the bough ; 
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear — 
She paus'd and she listen'd, all eager to hear, 

And her heart panted fearfully now. 

The wind blew , the hoarse ivy shook over her head ; 

She listen'd — nought else could she hear ; 
The wind ceas'd , her heart sunk in her bosom with dread 5 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 305 

For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread 
Of footsteps approaching her near. 

Behind a wide column , half breathless with fear , 

She crept to conceal herself there : 
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear , 
And she saw in the moonlight two ruflians appear, 

And between them a corpse did they bear. 

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold ! 

Again the rough wind hurried by — 
It blew off the hat of the one , and , behold ! 
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd : 

She fell — and expected to die. 

« Curse the hat ! » he exclaims ; — «Nay, come on, and first hide 

The dead body, » his comrade replies — 
She beheld them in safely pass on by her side , 
She seizes the hat , fear her courage supplied , 

And fast through the abbey she flies. 

She ran with wild speed , she rush'd in at the door , 

She gaz'd horribly eager around, 
Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, 
And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor , 

Unable to utter a sound. 

Ere yet her pale lips could tfye story impart i 

For a moment the hat met her view ; 
Her eyes from that object convulsively start , 
For , oh God ! what cold horrour thrill'd through her heart , 

When the name of her Richard she knew ! 

Where the old abbey stands , on the common hard by , 

His giboet is now to be seen — 
Not far from the inn it engages the eye ; 
The trav'ller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh 

Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 

SOU THEY. 
39 



306 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, WHO FELL AT 
CORUNNA IN 1808. 

Not a drum was heard , nor a funeral note , 
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night , 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light , 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest , 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said , 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead , 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought , as we hollowd his narrow bed , 

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow , 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head. 

And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But nothing he'll reck , if they let him sleep on , 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock told the hour for retiring , v 

And we heard by the distant and random gun, 
That the foe was suddenly firing. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



307 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down , 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



THE COUNTRY BUMPKIN AND RAZOR-SELLER. 

A fellow in a market town , 

Most musical , criel razors up and down , 

And offer 'd twelve for eighteen pence ; 
Which certainly seemed wond'rous cheap , 
And for the money quite a heap , 

As ev'ry man would buy with cash and sense. 

A country bumpkin the great offer heard: 

Poor Hodge , who suffer'd by a broad black beard , 

That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose ; 
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, 
And proudly to himself in whispers said , 

a The rascal stole the razors , I suppose. » 

cc No matter if the fellow be a knave , 
« Provided that the razors shave; 

cc It certainly will be a monstrous prize. » 
So home the clown , with his .good fortune , went , 
Smiling in heart , and soul content , 

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes. 

Being well lalher'd from a dish or tub , 

Hodge now began , with grinning pain , to grub , 

Just like a hedger cutting furze : 
'Twas a vile razor ! — then the rest he tried — 
All were impostors. — (c Ah, » Hodge sigh'd ! 

« I wish the eighteen pence within my purse. » 

In vain to chase his beard , and bring the graces , 

He cut, and dug, and winc'd , and stamp'd 'j and swore 



308 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



Brought blood, and danced, blasphem'd and made wry faces; 
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er. 

Hodge sought the fellow — found him , and begun — 
« P'rhaps , master razor-rogue , to you 'tis fun , 

« That people flay themselves out of their lives : 
u You rascal! — for an hour have I been grubbing, 
« Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing , 

« With razors just like oyster-knives. 
« Sirrah ! I tell you you're a knave , 
« To cry up razors that can't shave. » 

« Friend , » quoth the razor-man , « I'm not a knave ; 
« As for the razors you have bought, 
<( Upon my soul , I never thought 
« That they would shave. » 

<( Not think they'd shave ! » quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, 

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; 
« What were they made for, then, you dog? » he cries; — 

« Made, » quoth the fellow, with a smile, — « to sell. » 

Peter Pindar. 



THE VILLAGE CURATE. 

Near yonder copse , where once the garden smil'd , 

And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 

There , where a few torn shrubs the place disclose , 

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year ! 

Remote from towns , he ran his godly' race , 

Nor e'er had chang'd , nor wish'd to change his place ; 

Unskilful he lo fawn or seek for pow'r, 

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 

Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize ; 

More bent to raise, the wretched than to rise, 



SELECT PIECES OE POETRY. 



309 



His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 

He chid their wand'rings , but reliev'd their pain. 

The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 

Whose beard , descending , swept his aged breast ; 

The ruin'd spendthrift , now no longer proud , 

Claim'd kindred there , and had his claims allow'd ; 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 

Sate by his fire , and talk'd the night away ; 

Wept o'er his wounds , or tales of sorrow done , 

Shoulder 'd his crutch , and show'd how fields were won ; 

Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan , 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
But in his duly prompt at ev 'ry call , 
He walch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. 
And , as a bird each fond endearment tries , 
To tempt her new-fledg'd olFspring to the skies , 
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds , and led the way. 

Beside the bed , where parting life was laid , 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay 'd , 
The rev'rend champion stood. At his controul, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down , the trembling wretch to raise , 
And his last fauli'ring accents whisper'd praise. 

At church , with meek and unaffected grace , 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past , around the pious man , 
With ready zeal , each honest rustic ran ; 
Ev'n children followed with endearing wile> 
And pluck'd his gown , to share the good man's smile, 



310 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd , 
Their welfare pleas'd him , and their cares distress'd. 
To them his heart , his love , his griefs were giv'n , 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heay'n. 
As some tali cliff that lifts its awful form , 
Swells from the vale , and midway leaves the storm , 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Goldsmith. 



FROM COOPER'S HILL. 

My eye , descending from the hill , surveys 

Where Thames among the wanton vallies strays. 

Thames , the most lov'd of all old Ocean's sons 

By his old sire , to his embraces runs ; 

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea , 

Like mortal life to meet eternity. 

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold , 

Whose foam is amber , and their gravel gold ; 

His genuine and less guilty wealth t'explore , 

Search not his bottom , but survey his shore , 

O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, 

And hatches plenty for th'ensuing spring. 

Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, 

Like profuse kings , resumes the wealth he gave. 

No unexpected inundations spoil 

The mower's hopes , nor mock the ploughman's toil : 

But god-like his unwearied bounty flows : 

First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 

Nor are his blessings to his banks confin'd , 

But free and common, as the sea or wind; 

When he , to boast or to disperse his stores , 

Full of the tributes of his grateful shores , 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Visits the world , and in his flying tow'rs 

Brings home to us , and makes both Indies ours ; 

Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, 

Cities in deserts , wood in cities plants. 

So that, to us, no thing no place is strange, 

While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. 

Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream 

My great example , as it is my theme ! 

Though deep , yet clear ; though gentle , yet not dull , 

Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. 

Denham. 



311 



REFLECTION ON MAN. 

How poor , how rich , how abject , how august , 
How complicate, how wonderful is man! 
How passing wonder He who made him such ! 
Who centred in our make such strange extremes ! 
From different natures marvelously mixt, 
Connection exquisite of distant worlds : 
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain ! 
Midway from nothing to the deity ! 
A beam ethereal , sully'd and absorpt ! 
Though sully'd and dishonour'd , still divine ! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself , 
And in myself am lost ! at home a stranger , 
Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd , aghast, 
And wondering at her own ; how reason reels ! 
, what a miracle is man , to man ! 
Triumphantly distress'd J what joy, what dread! 
Alternately transported and alarm'd ; 



312 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

What can preserve my life ! or what destroy ! 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave, 
Legions of angels can't confine me Ihere. 

Young. 



OZYMANDIAS. 



I met a traveller from an antique land, 

Who said : two vast and trunkless legs of stone 

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, 

Half sunk , a shattered visage lies , whose frown 

And wrinkled lip , and sneer of cold command , 

Tell that the sculptor well those passions read 

Which yet survive , stamped on these lifeless things , 

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed : 

And on the pedestal these words appear: 

« My name is Ozymandias , king of kings ; 

« Look on my works , ye mighty , and despair I * 

Nothing heside remains ! Round the decay 

Of that colossal wreck , boundless and bare , 

The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

P. B. Shelley. 



DESCRIPTION OF A HAG. 

In a close lane , as I pursued my journey , 

I spied a withered hag, with age grown double, 

Picking dry sticks, and mumb'ling to herself; 

Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red, 

Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd withered, 

And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapp'd 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



313 



The tattered remnants of an old strip'd hanging, 

Which served to keep her carcase from the cold : 

So there was nothing of a piece about her. 

Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd 

With different coloured rags, black, red, white, yellow, 

And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. 

Otway, 



AN EPITAPH. 



Interr'd beneath this marble stone 

Lies sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 

While rolling threescore years and one 

Did round this globe their courses run , 

If human things went ill or well , 

If changing empires rose or fell, 

The morning past , the evening came , 

And found this couple still the same. 

They walk'd , and eat , good folks : what then ? 

Why then they walk'd and eat again : 

They soundly slept the night away ; 

They did just nothing all the day s 

And , having buried children four , 

Wished not in any way for more. 

Nor sister either had nor brother ; 

They seem'd just tallied for each other. 

Their moral and economy 
Most perfectly they made agree : 
Each virtue kept its proper bound , 
Nor trespass'd on the other's ground. 
Nor fame nor censure (hey regarded ; 
They neither punished nor rewarded. 
He cared not what the footman did ; 
Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid : 
So every servant took his course, 

40 



314 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY, 

And, bad at first, they all grew worse. 
Slothful disorder fill'd his stable , 
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. 
Their beer was strong ; their wine was port ; 
Their meal was large, their grace was short. 
They gave the poor the remnant meat , 
Just when it grew not fit to eat. 

They paid the church and parish rate ; 
And took , but read not , the receipt ; 
For which they claim'd their Sunday's due j 
Of slumbering in an upper pew. 
No man's defects sought they to know ; 
So never made themselves a foe. 
No man's good deeds did they commend , 
So never rais'd themselves a friend. 
Nor cherish'd they relations poor ; 
That might decrease their present store : 
Nor barn nor house did they repair 
That might oblige a future heir. 

They neither added nor confounded ; 
They neither wanted nor abounded. 
Nor tear nor smile did they employ 
At news of public grief or joy. 
When bells were rung and bonfires made, 
If ask'd , they ne'er denied their aid : 
Their jug was to the ringers carried, 
Whoever either died or married. 
Their billet at the fire was found , 
Whoever was depos'd or crown'd. 

Nor good , nor bad , nor fools , nor wise ; 
They would not learn , nor could advise : 
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, 
They led — a kind of — as it were : 
Nor wish'd , nor car'd , nor laugh'd , nor cried 
And so they lived and so they died. 

Prior. 



Select pieces of poetry. 



FROM FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE. 

A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon 
To mock our separation. 
Alas ! ten thousand will not do ; 
My heart will thus no longer stay, 
No longer 'twill be kept from you , 
But knocks against the breast to get away. 
And when no art affords me help or ease , 
I seek with verse my grief t'appease : 
Just as a bird that flies about , 
And beats itself against the cage, 
Finding at last no passage out, 
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage, 

Cowley. 



315 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



PART I. 



It is an ancient Mariner ^ 

And he stoppeth one of tjiree : 

k By thy long grey beard and glittering eye $ 

Now whercfor stopp'st thou me ? 

The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met , the feast is set • 
Mayst hear the merry din* » 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
a There was a ship , » quoth he. 
« Hold off unhand me , grey -beard loon ! ) 

Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



316 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The wedding guest stood still, 
And listens like a three year's child: 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright eyed Mariner. 

« The ship was cheer'd , the harbour clear'd , : 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk , below the hill , 

Below the light-house top. 

The sun came up upon the left , 
Out of the sea came he; 
And he shone bright , and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

And now the storm-blast came, and he 
Was* tyrrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking winds, 
And chased us south along. 

And now there came both mist and snow 
And it grew wonderous cold : 
And ice , mast-high , came floating by , 
As green as emerald. 

The ice was here , the ice was there , 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roar'd and howl'd^ 

Like noises in a swouhd ! 

At length did cross an Albatross : 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it liad been a christian soul j 
Wc hailed it in God's name. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 317 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat , 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steer'd us through. 

And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
The Albatross did follow, 
And every day ,, for food or play , 
Came to the Mariner's hollo ! » 

« God save thee , ancient Mariner ! 

From the fiends that plague thee thus ! — 

Why looks't thou so? » — « With my cross-bow 

I shot the Albatross l 

PART II. 

The sun now rose upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he , 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south- wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow , 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the Mariners' hollo ! 

And I had done a hellish thing , j 

And it would work 'em' woe : 

For all averred I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah , wretch ! said they , the bird lo slay , 

That made the breeze to blow ! 

Down dropt the breeze , the sails dropt down \ 
'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky , 
The bloody sun , at noon , 



318 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY, 

Right up above the mast did stand ? 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day , day after day , 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water , water $ everywhere i 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water , water , everywhere , 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot ; Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea , slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About ; about j in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night j 
The water , like a witch's oils , 
Burnt green , and blue and white. 

And every tongue , through utter drought 
Was wither'd at the root ; 
We could not speak , no more than if 
We had been choak'd with soot. 

Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young! 
Instead of the cross , the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 

PART III; 

There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched , and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye ! 
When looking westward , I beheld 
A something in the sky. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY: 319 

At first it seem'd a little speck, 
And then it seem'd a mist : 
It moved and moved , and took at last 
A certain shape , I wist. 

A speck , a mist , a shape , I wist ! 
And still it near'd and near d : 
And as if it dodged a water sprite , 
It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. 

With throat unslack'd , with black lips baked , 

We could nor laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood , 

I bit my arm , I sucked the blood , 

And cried , a sail ! a sail ! 

With throats unslacked, with black lips baked 9 
Agape they heard me call : 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin , 
And all at once their breath drew in , 
As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried ) she tacks no more I 
Hither to work us weal; 
Without a breeze , without a tide , 

She steadies with upright keel! 

i 
The western wave was all a-flaniej 
The day was well nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright sunj 
When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
( Heaven's mother send us grace ! ) 
As if through a dungeon grate he peer'd , 
With broad and burning face. 



320 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Alas ! ( thought I p and my heart beat loud ) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun , 
Like restless gossameres ! 

Are those her ribs through which the sun 
Did peer , as through a grate ? 
And is that woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
Is Death that woman's mate? 

Her lips were red , her looks were free , 
Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The night-mare Life-in-Death was she , 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk along side came , 

And the twain were casting dice ; 

« The game is done ! I've won , I've won ! » 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

A gust of wind sterte up behind , 

And whistled through his bones ; 

Through the holes of his eyes, and the hole of his mouth, 

Half whistles and half groans. 

The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far heard whisper , o'er the sea , 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listen'd and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart , as at a cup , 

My life-blood seem'd to sip ! 

The stars were dim , and thick the night , 

The stearman's face by his lamp gleam'd white. 

One after one , by the star dogg'd moon , 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 321 

Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang , 
And curs'd me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men , 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump , a lifeless lump , 
They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly , — 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul , it passed me by , 
Like the whiz of my cross-bow ! 

After a variety of sufferings , he at last reaches his home : 
and on quitting the wedding-guest says : 

Farewell, farewell! But this I tell 
To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
He prayeth well , who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best , who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear god who loveth us , 
He made and loveth all. 

Coleridge. 



FROM THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 

Sir William Deloraine , a bold knight , is sent by the 
chief of Branksome to Melrose Abbey , to seek a charmed 
book , buried with a celebrated enchanter many years before. 

I. 

<( Sir William of Deloraine , good at need , 
Mount thee on the swiftest steed ; 
Spare not to spur , nor stint to ride , 
Until thou come to fair Tweed side , 

41 



322 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

And in Melroses's holy pile, 

Seek thou the Monk of Saint-Mary aisle. 

Greet the father well from me ; 
Say , that the fated hour is come , 

And to-night he shall watch with thee , 
To win the treasure of the tomb : 
For this will be S l . Michael's night , 
And , though stars be dim , the moon is bright , 
And the cross of bloody red , 
Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. 

II. 

« What he gives thee , see thou keep ; 
Stay not thou for food or sleep : 
Be it scroll or be it book , 
If thou readest thou art lorn ! 
Better thou hadst ne'er been born. » 

III. • 

Short halt did Deloraine make there; 
Little recked he of the scene so fair : 
With dagger's hilt , on the wicket strong , 
He struck full loud , and struck full long ; 
The porter hurried to the gate — 

a Who knocks so loud , and knocks so late ? 

«/From Branksome 1, » the Warrior cried; 

And strait the wicket opened wide ; 
For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood , 

To fence the rights of fair Melrose ; 
And lands and living, many a rood , 

Had gifted the shrine for their soul's depose. 

IV. 

Bold Deloraine his errand said ; 
The porter bent his humble head ; 



SELECT PIECES OF POETP.Y. 323 

With torch in hand , and feet unshod , 

And noiseless step, the path he trod : 

The arched cloisters, far and wide, 

Rang to the Warrior's clanking stride ; 

Till stooping low his lofty crest , 

He entered the cell of the ancient priest , 

And lifted his barred evantayle , 

To hail the. Monk of S l Mary's aisle. 

V. 

The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me ; 

Says that the fated hour is come , 

And that to-night I shall watch with thee , 

To win the treasure of the tomb. 
From sackloth couch the Monk arose ; 

With toil his stiffened limbs he reared ; 
A hundred years had flung their snows 

On his thin locks and floating beard. 

VI. 

And strangely on the knight looked he, 

And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide ; 
« And , dar'st thou , Warrior ! seek to see 

W 7 hat heaven and hell alike would hide ? 
My breast , in belt of iron pent , 

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn , 
For threescore years in penance spent ; 

My knees those flinty stones have worn ; 
Yet all too little to atone 
For knowing what should ne'er be known. 

Wouldst thou thy every future year 

In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 
Yet wait thy latter end with fear — 

Then , daring Warrior , follow me ! » 

VII. 

<( Penance , Father , will I none ; 
Prayer know I hardly one ; 



324 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry , 

Save to palter an Ave Mary , 

When I ride on a Border foray : 

Olher prayer can I none ; 

So speed me my errand , and let me be gone. » — 

VIII. 

Again on the Knight looked the churchman old , 

And again he sighed heavily ; 
For he had himself been a warrior bold , 

And fought in Spain and Italy. 
And he thought on the days that were long since by , 
When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high : — 
Now slow and faint, he led Ihe way, 
Where cloistered round, the garden lay; 
The pillared arches were over his head , 
And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. 

IX. 

They sate them down on a marble stone , 

A Scottish monarch slept below ; 
Thus spoke the Monk , in solemn tone : 

•a I was not always a man of woe ; 
For Paynim countries I have trod , 
And fought beneath the cross of God : 
Now strange to my eyes thine arms appear, 
And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. 

X. 

« In these far climes , it was my lot 
To meet the wond 'rous Michael Scott ; 

A wizard of such dreaded fame , 
That when , in Salamanca's cave , 
Him listed his magic wand to wave ; 

The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
Some of his skill he taught to me ; 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



325 



And , Warrior , I could say to thee 

The words that cleft Eildon hills in three , 

And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone : 
But to speak them were a deadly sin ; 
And for having but thought them my heart within , 

A triple penance must be done. 

XI. 

a When Michael lay on his dying bed , 
His conscience was awakened ; 
He bethought him of his sinful deed , 
And he gave me a sign to come with speed ; 
I was in Spain when the morning rose , 
But I stood by his bed ere the evening close. 
The words may not again be said, 
That he spoke to me , on death-bed laid : 
They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave , 
And pile it in heaps above his grave. 

XII. 

« I swore to bury his Mighty Book , 

That never mortal might therein look ; 

And never to tell where it was hid , 

Save at his Chief of Branksome's need : 

And when that need was past and o'er , 

Again the volume to restore. 

I buried him on St. Michael's night, 

When the bell lolled one, and the moon was bright, 

And I dug his chamber among the dead, 

When the floor of the chancel was stained red , 

That his patron's cross might over him wave , 

And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave. 

XIII. 

« It was a night of woe and dread , 
When Michael in the tomb I laid ! 



326 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Strange sounds along the chancel past , 

The banners waved without a blast » — 

— Still spoke the Monk , when the bell tolled one ! — 

I tell you , that a braver man 

Than William of Deloraine , good at need , 

Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed ; 

Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread, 

And his hair did bristle upon his head. 

XIV. 

(( Lo , Warrior! now the Cross of Red 
Points to the grave of the mighty dead ; 
Within it burns a wondrous light , 
To chase the spirits that love the night : 
That lamp shall burn unquenchably , 
^ Until the eternal doom shall be. » 

Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag stone , 

Which the bloody Cross was traced upon : 

He pointed to a secret nook ; 

An iron bar the Warrior took ; 

And the Monk made a sign , with his withered hand , 

The grave's huge portal to expand. 

XV. 

With beating heart to the task he went ; 

His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; 

With bar of iron heaved amain , 

Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. 

It was by dint of passing strength , 

That he moved the massy stone at length. 

I would you had been there to see, 

How the light broke forth so gloriously , 

Streamed upward to the chancel roof, 

And through the galleries far aloof! 
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright : 
It shone like heaven's own blessed light ; 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 327 

And , issuing from the tomb , 
Showed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale, 
Danced on the dark-browed Warrior's mail , 

And kissed his waving plume. 

XVI. 

Before their eyes the Wizard lay , 

As if he had not been dead a day. 

His hoary beard in silver rolled , 

He seemed some seventy winters old ; 
A palmer's amice wrapped him round , 
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound , 

Like a pilgrim beyond the sea ; 

His left hand held his Book of Might ; 
A silver cross was in his right ; 

The lamp was placed beside his knee : 
High and majestic was his look , 
At which the fellest fiends had shook , 
And all unruffled was hi a face : 
They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 

XVII. 

Often had William of Deloraine 
Rode through the battle's bloody plain , 
And trampled down the warriors slain , 
And neither known remorse or awe; 

let now remorse and awe he owned; 

His breath came thick , his head swam round , 
^ When this strange scene of death he saw. 

Bewildered and unnerved he stood , 

And the priest prayed fervently and loud : 

With eyes averted prayed he ; 

He might not endure the sight to see , 

Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 



328 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



XVIII. 



And when the priest his death -prayer had prayed , 

Thus unto Deloraine he said : — 

« Now speed thee what thou hast to do , 

Or , Warrior , we may dearly rue ; 

For those , thou mayst not look upon , 

Are gathering fast round the yawning stone ! » — 

Then Deloraine , in terror , took 

From the cold hand the Mighty Book , 

With iron clasped , and with iron bound : 

He thought as he took it , the dead man frowned ; 

But the glare of the sepulchral light, 

Perchance , had dazzled the Warrior's sight. 

XIX. 

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb , 

The night returned in double gloom , 

For the moon had gone down , and the stars were few ; 

And as the Knight and Priest withdrew , 

With wavering steps and dizzy brain , 

They hardly might the postern gain. 

'Tis said, as through the aisles they past, 

They heard strange noises on the blast ; 

And through the cloister-galleries small, 

Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall , 

Loud sobs , and laughter louder , ran , 

And voices unlike the voice of man ; 

As if the fiends kept holiday, 

Because these spells were brought to day. 

I cannot tell how the truth may be ; 

I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 

XX. 

a Now , hie thee hence , » the Father said , 
« And when we are on death-bed laid , 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 329 

i 

may our dear Lad ye , and sweet St. John, 
Forgive our souls for the deed we have done ! » — 
The Monk returned him to his cell , 

And many a prayer and penance sped. 
When the convent met at the noon-tide bell — 

The Monk of St. -Mary's aisle was dead ! 
Before the cross was the body laid , 
With hands clasped fast, as if still he prayed. 

XVIII. 

The knight breathed free in the morning wind , 

And strove his hardihood to find : 

He was glad when he passed the tomb-stones grey , 

Which girdle round the fair Abbaye ; 

For the mystic Book , to his bosom prest , 

Fell — like a load upon his breast ; 

And his joints , with nerves of iron twined , 

Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. 

Full fain was he when the dawn of day 

Began to brighten Cheviot grey : 

He joyed to see the cheerful light, 

And he said Ave Mary, as well as he might. 

Walter Scott. 



PARADISE AND THE PERI. 

One morn a Peri at the gate 

Of Eden stood disconsolate ; 

And as she listen'd to the Springs 

Of life within , like music flowing , 
And caught the light upon her wings 

Through the half-open portal glowing , 
She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 

42 



330 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

« How happy , » exclaim 'd this child of air , 
Are the holj spirits who wander there, 

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall ; 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea , 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me , 

One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all! 
Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree isle reflected clear, 

And sweelly the founts of that valley fall ; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray, 
Yet, oh ! 'tis only the Blest can say 

How the waters of heaven outshine them all ! 

« Go , wing thy flight from star to star , 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres , 
And multiply each through endless years , 

One minute of heaven is worth them all ! » 

The glorious angel, who was keeping 
The gates of light , beheld her weeping ; 
And as he nearer drew and listen'd 
To her sad song, a tear drop glisten'd 
Within his eye-lids, like the spray 

From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
On the blue flower, which Bramins say 

Blooms no where but in Paradise ! 

<c Nymph of a fair but erring line ! » 
Gently he said • — « One hope is thine : 
'Tis written in the Book of fate, 
'The Peri yet may be forgiven „ 
Who brings to this Eternal Gate 

The gift that is most dear to Heaven! 
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin; — 
'Tis sweet to let the pardon d in/)) 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 331 

Rapidly as comets run 

To the embraces of the sun — 

Fleeter than the starry brands , 

Flung at night from angel hands 

At those dark and daring sprites, 

Who would climb the empyreal heights — 

Down the blue vault the Peri flies, 

And , lighted earthly by a glance 
That just then broke from morning's eyes, 

Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. 

But whither shall the Spirit go 

To find this gift for Heaven? — « I know 

The wealth , » she cries , « of every urn , 

In which unnumber'd rubies burn , 

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ; — 

I know where the isles of Perfume are , 

Many a fathom down in the sea , 

To the south of sun -bright Araby ; — 

I know too where the Genii hid 

The jewell'd cup of their king jamshid, 

With life's elixir sparkling high — 

But gifts like these are not for the sky. 

Where was there ever a gem that shone 

Like the steps of Alla's wonderful throne? 

And the drops of Life-oh ! what would they be 

In the boundless deep of Eternity ? » 

While thus she mused her pinions fanned 
The air of that sweet Indian land , 
Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral rocks and amber beds ; 
Whose mountains , fertile by the beam 
Of the warm sun , with diamonds teem , 
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice 
Might be a Peri's Paradise ! 
But crimson now her rivers ran 



332 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

With human blood — the smell of death 
Came reeking from those spicy bowers , 
And man , the sacrifice of man , 

Mingled his taint with every breath 
Upwafted from the innocent flowers ! 
Land of the sun ! what foot invades 
Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades — 
Thy cavern shrines and idol stones , 
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones? 
'Tis He of Gazna ! fierce in wrath 

He comes , and India's diadems 
Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. — 

His blood-hounds he adorns with gems , 
Torn from the violated necks 

Of many a young and loved sultana ; — 

Maidens within their pure Zenana , 

Priests in the very fane he slaughters , 
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks 

Of golden shrines the sacred waters ! 
Downward the Peri turns her gaze, 
And , through the war-field's bloody haze , 
Beholds a youthful warrior stand , 

Alone , beside his native river , — 
The red blade broken in his hand 
And the last arrow in his quiver. 
<( Live , » said the conqueror , « live to share 
The trophies and the crowns I bear! » 
Silent that youthful warrior stood — 
Silent he pointed to the flood 
All crimson with his country's blood ; 
Then sent his last remaining dart , 
For answer, to the invader's heart. 
False flew the shaft , though pointed well , 
The tyrant lived , the hero fell ! 
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay , 

And , when the rush of war was past , 
Swiftly descending on a ray 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY, 



333 



Of morning light, she caught the last — 
Last glorious drop his heart had shed , 
Before its free -horn spirit fled ! 

« Be this , )) she cried , as she wing'd her flight , 
My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 
Though foul are the drops that oft distil 

On the field of warfare , blood like this , 

For Liberty shed , so holy is , 
It would not stain the purest rill , 

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss ! 
Oh ! if there be , on this earthly sphere , 
A boon , an offering heaven holds dear , 
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause ! » 

« Sweet , » said the Angel , as she gave 

The gift into his radiant hand, 
<c Sweet is our welcome of the brave , 

Who die thus for their native land. — 
But see alas ! — ■ the chrystal bar 
Of Eden moves not — holier far 
Than even this drop the boon must be 7 
That opes the gate of heaven for thee ! » 

Thomas Moore. 



FROM THE TASK 



for a lodge in some vast wilderness , 

Some boundless conliguity of shade , 

Where rumour of oppression and deceit , 

Of unsuccessful or successful war , 

Might never reach me more. My ear is paind , 

My soul is sick , with ev'ry day's report 

Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is fill'd. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart , 



334 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

It does not feel for man ; the natVal bond 

Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 

Not colour'd like his own , and having pow'r 

T'enforce the wrong , for such a worthy cause 

Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 

Lands intersected by a narrow frith 

Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd 

Make enemies of nations , who had else 

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 

Thus man devotes his brother , and destroys ; 

And , worse than all , and most to be deplor'd 

As human nature's broadest , foulest blot , 

Chains him , and tasks him , and exacts his sweat 

With stripes , that Mercy with a bleeding heart 

Weeps , when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man ? And what man , seeing this , 

And having human feelings , does not blush , 

And hang his head , to think himself a man ? 

I would not have a slave to till my ground , 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake , for all the wealth , 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 

No : dear as freedom is , and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price ; 

I had much rather be myself the slave , 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 

We have no slaves at home — Then why abroad ? 

And they themselves , once ferried o'er the wave 

That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 

Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 

Receive our air , that moment they are free ; 

They touch our country and their shackles fall. 

That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 

And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then , 

And let it circulate through ev'ry vein 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 335 

Of all your empire ; that , where Britain's pow'er 
Is felt , mankind may feel her mercy too. 

Cowper. 



PETER GRIMES'S CONFESSION 

On his death-bed , after having been an ungrateful and bad son , 
and the murderer of three of his apprentices. 

Then as they watch'd him , calmer he became , 

And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame , 

But murmuring spake , — while they could see and hear 

The start of terror and the groan of fear ; 

See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise , 

And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes ; 

Nor yet he died , J3ut with unwanted force 

Seem'd w r ith some fancied being to discourse : 

He knew not us, or with accustom'd art 

He hid the knowledge , yet exposed his heart ; 

'Twas part confession and the rest defence , 

A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense. 

((I'll tell you all, » he said « the very day 
When the old man first placed them in my way : 
My father's spirit , he who always tried 
To give me trouble , when he lived and died — 
When he was gone, he could not be content 
To see my days in painful labour spent, 
But would appoint his meetings , and he made 
Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade. 

<( 'Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene, 
No living being had I lately seen ; , 

I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net, 
But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get, — 
A father's pleasure , when his toil was done , 
To plague and torture thus an only son ! 



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And so I sat and look'd upon the stream , 

How it ran on, and felt as in a dream :' 

But dream it was not , no ! — 1 flx'd my eyes 

On the mid-stream and saw the spirits rise, 

I saw my father on the water stand, 

And hold a thin pale boy in either hand ; 

And there they glided ghostly on the top 

Of the salt flood , and never touch'd a drop : 

I would have struck them , but they knew th'intent . 

And smiled upon the oar, and down they went. 

((Now from that day , whenever I began 
To dip my net, there stood the hard old man — 
He and those boys : I humbled me and pray'd 
They would be gone, they heeded not, but stay'd; 
Nor could I turn , nor would the boat go by , 
But gazing on the spirits, there was I. 
They bade me leap to death , but I was loth to die. 
And every day, as sure as day arose, 
Would these three spirits meet me ere the close; 
To hear and mark them daily was my doom _, 
And 'Come', they said, with weak, sad voices, '•come'! 
To row away with all my strength I try'd , 
But there were they, hard by me in the tide, 
The three unbodied forms — and 'Come', still ! l come\ they cried. 

((Fafhers should pity — but this old man shook 
His hoary locks , and froze me by a look : 
Thrice when I struck them , through the water came 
A hollow groan , that weaken'd all my frame : 
' Father ! ' said I , c have mercy : ' — He replied , 
I know not what — the angry spirit lied, — 
4 Didst thou not draw thy knife ' ? said he : — 'Twas true , 
But I had pity and my arm withdrew : 
He cried for mercy which I kindly gave , 
But he has no compassion in his grave. 

« There were three places, where they ever rose, — 
The whole long river has not such as those, — 



_ 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 337 

Places accursed, where, if a man remain, 
He'll see the things which strike him to the brain ; 
And there they made me on my paddle lean, 
And look at them for hours; accursed scene! 
When they would glide to that smooth eddy- space , 
Then bid me leap and join them in the place ; 
And at my groans each little villain sprite 
Enjoy 'd my pains and vanish'd in delight. 

(cln one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain 
Was burning hot, and cruel ^vas my pain , 
Then came this falher-foe , and there he stood 
With his two boys again upon the flood ; 
There was more mischief in their eyes , more glee 
In their pale faces when they glared at me : 
Still did they force me on the oar to rest, 
And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd , 
He , w ilh his hand , the old man , scoop'd the flood , 
And there came flame about him mix'd with blood ; 
He bade me stoop and look upon the place , 
Then flung the hot red liquor in my face; 
Burning it blazed , and then I roar'd for pain , 
I thought the demons would have turn'd my brain. 

«Still there they stood, and forced me to behold 
A place of horrours — they cannot be told — 
Where the flood open'd , there I heard the shriek 
Of tortured guilt — no earthly ( tongue can speak: 
'All days alike ! for ever ! ' did they say, 
c And unremitted torments every day' — 
Yes, so they said:)) But here he ceased and gazed 

On all around, affrighten'd and amazed; 

And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dread 

Of frighten'd females gathering round his bed ; 

Then dropp'd exhausted and appear'd at rest , 

Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd ; 

Then with an inward , broken voice he cried . 

((Again they come , » and multer'd as he died. 

Crabbe. 

43 • 



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FROM THE SEASONS. 



FISHING. 



When with his lively ray the potent sun 

Has pierc'd the streams, and roiis'd the finny race, 

Then , issuing cheerful , to thy sport repair ; 

Chief should the western breezes curling play , 

And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. 

High to their fount, this day, amid the hills, 

And woodlands warbling round , trace up the brooks ; 

The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze, 

Down to the river, in whose ample wave 

Their little naiads love to sport at large. 

Just in the dubious point , where with the pool 

Is mix'd the trembling stream , or where it boils 

Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank 

Reverted plays in undulating flow, 

There throw , nice judging , the delusive fly ; 

And as you lead it round in artful curve , 

With eye attentive mark the springing game, 

Strait as above the surface of the flood 

They w r anton rise , or urg'd by hunger leap ; 

Then fix , with gentle twitch , the barbed hook i 

Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank , 

And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some , 

With various hand proportion'd to their force. 

If yet too young and easily deceiv'd , 

A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, 

Him , piteous of his youth , and the short space 

He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heaven, 

Soft disengage, and back into the stream 

The speckled captive throw. But should you lure 

From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots 

Of pendant trees , the monarch of the brook , 

Behoves you then to ply your finest art. 

Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly ; 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY* 339 

And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft 
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. 
At last 5 while haply o'er the shaded sun 
Passes a cloud , he desperate takes the death , 
With sullen plunge. At once he darts along , 
Deep struck., and runs out all the lengthened line , 
Then seeks the farthest ooze , the sheltering weed , 
The cavern'd hank his old secure abode; 
And flies aloft , and flounces round the pool , 
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, 
That feels him still , yet to his furious courses 
Gives way , you , now retiring , following now 
Across the stream , exhaust his idle rage : 
Till floating broad upon his breathless side, 
And to his fate abandon'd , to the shore 
You gaily drag your unresisting prize. 

Thomson. 



FROM THE ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 

Nature and rules the same. 

First follow Nature , and your judgment frame 
By her just standard, which is still the same t 
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 
One clear, [unchang'd, and universal light, 
Life , force s and beauty , must to all impart , 
At once the source , and end , and test of Art. 

• •»♦•••..** 

Those Rules of old discover'd , not devis'd ? 
Are Nature still , but Nature methodiz'd ; 
Nature , like liberty , is but restrain'd 
By the same Laws which first herself ordain'd. 

Pope- 



340 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

BOLD FLIGHTS. 

Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend , 
And rise to faults true critics dare not mend ; 
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part , 
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, 
Which, without passing though the judgment, gains 
The heart , and all its end at once attains. 

Pope. 



A LITTLE LEARNING DANGEROUS. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
Drink deep , or taste not the Pierian spring : 
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain , 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 

Pope, 



STYLE. 



Others for Language all their care express 
And value books , as women men , for dress : 
Their praise is still, — ■ The Style is excellent, 
The sense , they humbly take upon content. 

A vile conceit, in pompous words express'd , 
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd : 
For different styles with different subjects sort, 
As sev'ral garbs with country , town , and court. 

Pope^ 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



IMITATIVE HARMONY, 



341 



Tis not enough no harshness gives offence \ 

The sound must seem an Echo to the sense : 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows 7 

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore , 

The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. 

LABOUR OF SYSIPHUS. 

With many a weary step, and many a groan, 
Up a high hill he heaves a huge round stone ; 
The huge round stone resulting with a bound , 
Thunders impetuous down , and smokes along the ground, 

Pope. 



FROM THE ESSAY ON MAN. 

Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate ; 

All but the page prescrib'd their present state ; 

From brutes what men , from men what spirits know 

Or who could suffer being here below? 

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 

Had he thy reason , would he skip and play ! 

Pleas'd to the last , he crops the flow'ry food , 

And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 

Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, 

That each may fill the circle mark'd by heav'n : 

Who sees with equal eye , as God of all , 

A hero perish or a sparrow fall : 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd; 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 



342 Select pieces of poetic 

Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soai' j 
Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore. 
What future bliss he gives not thee to know , 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; 
Man never zV but always to be blest ; 
The soul uneasy , and confin'd from home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Lo , the poor Indian ! whose unlutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds , or hears him in the wind j 
His soul proud science never taught to stray j 
Far as the solar walk } or milky way ; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n , 
Behind the cloud-topt hill , a humbler heav'n ; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste , 
Where slaves once more their native lands behold \ 
No fiends torment , no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be , contents his natural desire ; 
He asks no angel's wing , no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks admitted to that equal sky , 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Go , wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense j 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such; 
Say here he gives too little , there too much ; 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust , 
Yet cry , if man's unhappy , God's unjust ; 
If man alone engross not Heav'n's high care, 
Alone made perfect here $ immortal there : 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod 9 
Rejudge his justice, be the God of God. 
In pride } in reas'ning pride , our error lies ; 
All quit their sphere , and rush into the skies. 
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes ; 
Men would be angels , angels would be gods. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY, 

Aspiring to be gods , if angels fell , 
Aspiring to be angels , men rebel : 
And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of order, sins against th' eternal cause. 



343 



Pop 



E, 



FROM MAG FLECKNOE. 

All human things are subject to decay , 
And when fate summons , monarchs must obey. 
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus young. 
Was call'd to empire , and had govern'd long ; 
In prose and verse was own'd without dispute , 
Through all the realms of nonsense absolute. 
This aged prince now flourishing in peace , 
And bless'd with issue of a large encrease ; 
Worn out with business , did at length debate 
To settle the succession of the state : 
And pondering which of all his sons was fit 
To reign , and wage immortal war with wit , 
Cry'd (( tis resolv'd ; for nature pleads, that he 
Should only rule , who most resembles me. 
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears , 
Mature in dulness from his tender years : 
Shadwell alone of all my sons is he 
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. 
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence , 
But Shadwell never deviates into.sense, 
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall , 
Strike through and make some lucid interval ; 
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray , 
His rising fogs prevail upon the day. » 

Dryden 



344 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 

an ode on st. Cecilia's day. 
'Twas at the royal feast , for Persia won , - 
By Philip's warlike son : 

Aloft in awful state 

The godlike monarch sate 
On his imperial throne : 
His valiant peers were placed around , 
Their brows with roses and myrtles bound ; 
So should desert in arms be crown'd. 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sate like a blooming eastern bride , 
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. 

Happy, happy, happy pair; 

None but the brave , 

None but the brave , 

None but the brave deserve the fair. 
Timotheus plac'd on high , 

Amid the tuneful quire , 

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre ; 

The trembling notes ascend the sky , 
And heav'nly joy inspire. 
The song began from Jove , 
Who left his blissful seats above , 
Such is the mighty pow'r of love ! 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, 

When he to fair Olympia press'd , 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world 
The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
A present deity the vaulted roofs rebound. 

With ravish'd ears , 

The monarch hears , 

Assumes the god , 

Affects to nod , 
And seems to shake the spheres. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



345 



The praise of Bacchus then , the sweet musician sung : 

Of Bacchus ever fair , and ever young ; 

The jolly god, in triumph comes, 

Sound the trumpets , beat the drums ; 

Flush'd with a purple grace, 

He shows his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes , he comes ! 

Bacchus ever fair , and young , 

Drinking joys did first ordain : 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure ; ^ 

Sweet is pleasure after pain. 



Sooth'd with the sound , the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again ; 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise; 
His glowing cheeks , his ardent eyes ; 
And while he heav'n and earth defied , 
Chang'd his hand and checked his pride : 
He chose a mournful muse, 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great and good , 

By too severe a fate , 
Fall'n , fall'n , fall'n , fall'n , 

Fall'n from his high estate, 
And welt' ring in his blood , 

Deserted at his utmost need , 
By those his former bounty fed., 

On the bare earth expos'd he lies , 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast look the joyless victor sate , 

Revolving in his alter'd soul 

44 



340 



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The various turns of fate below : 
And now and then a sigh he stole ; 
And tears began to flow. 

Thw mighty master smiPd to see, 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move ; 
For pity melts the mind to love ! 

Softly sweet in Lydian measures, 
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures : 
War , he sung , is toil and trouble ; 
Honour but an empty bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still , and still destroying : 

If the world be worth thy winning , 
Think , , think it worth enjoying ! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
Take the goods the Gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause , 
So love was crown'd , but music won the cause. 
The prince , unable to conceal his pain , 
Gazd on the fair 
Who caus'd his care , 
And sigh'd and look'd , sigh'd and look'd , 
Sigh'd and look'd , and sigh'd again : 
At length with love and wine at once oppress'd , 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
And louder yet , and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bonds of sleep asunder , 
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 

Has rais'd up his head ; 
As awak'd from the dead , 

And amaz'd he stares around. 
Revenge , revenge , Timotheus cries , 

See the furies arise , 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 347 

See the snakes that they rear , 

How they hiss in the air , 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 

Behold a ghastly band ; 

Each a torch in his hand ; 
These are Grecian ghosts , that in battle were slain , 

And unburied remain , 

Inglorious on the plain ; 

Give the vengeance due 

To the valiant crew : 
Behold how they toss their torches on high , 

How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glitt 'ring temples of their hostile gods ! ■ — 

The princes applaud with a furious joy , 
And the king seiz'd a flambeau , with zeal to destroy ; 

Thais led the way 

To light him to his prey , 
And like another Helen , fir'd another Troy. 

Thus long ago , 

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 

While organs yet were mute, 

Timotheus to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre , 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 

At last divine Cecilia came , 

Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 

Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds , 

And added length 'to sounds , 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize , 

Or both divi'de the crown ; 

He raisd a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 

Dryden. 



348 



SELECT TIECES OF POETRY. 



FROM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? 

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow; now madden to crime? 

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 

Where the flowers ever blossom , the beams ever shine , 

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, 

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; 

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit , 

And the voice of the nightingale never is mule; 

Where the lints of the earth and the hues of the sky, 

In colour though varied , in beauty may vie , 

And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; 

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine , 

And all , save the spirit of man , is divine ? 

'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the sun — 

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 

Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. 

Lord Byron. 



ZULEIKA: 

Fair as the first that fell of woman kind , 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendant vision, 

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian , 

And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love; 
Pure, as the prayer which childhood waft£ above, 
Was she — the daughter of that rude old chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 349 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray ! 
Who doth not feel , until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of loveliness? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone : 
The light of love , the purity of grace , 
The mind , the music breathing from her face , 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — - 
And oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 

Lord Byron. 



FROM THE CORSAIR. 

THE BOAT -SONG. 

« O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless , and our souls as free , 
Far as the breeze can bear , the billows foam , 
Survey our empire , and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest , and joy in every change. 
Oh , who can tell ? not thou , luxurious slave I 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
Not thou , vain lord of wantonness and ease !. 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please 
Oh , who can tell , save he whose heart hath tried , 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
The exulting sense - — the pulse's maddening plav , 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight , 
And turn what some deem danger to delight; 



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That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal , 

And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 

Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 

Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 

No dread of death — if with us die our foes — - 

Save that it seems even duller than repose : 

Come when it will — we snatch the life of life ; 

When lost, what recks it — by disease or strife? 

Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay, 

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away, 

Heave his thick breath , and shake his palsied head ; 

Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 

While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul , 

Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes controul 

His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 

And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 

Ours are the tears , though few, sincerely shed , 

When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 

For us , even banquets fond regret supply 

In the red cup that crowns our memory : 

And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 

When those who win at length divide the prey, 

And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 

How had the brave who fell exulted now! » 

Lord Byron . 



FROM THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 

He wander'd on , along the beach , 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not , 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christian's hold? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold? 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 351 

I know not , in sooth ; but from yonder wall 

There flash'd no fire , and there hiss'd no ball , 

Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown 

That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town , 

Though he heard the sound and could almost tell 

The. sullen words of the sentinel, 

And his measured step on the stone below , 

Clank'd , as he paced it, to and fro : 

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall, 

Hold o'er the dead their carnival , 

Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb ; 

They were too busy to bark at him ! 

From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh , 

As ye peel the fig when ils fruit is fresh; 

And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, 

As it slipp'd through their jaws when their edge grew dull ; 

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; 

So well had they broken a lingering fast 

With those who had fallen for that night's repast ; 

And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolt'd on the sand, 

The foremost of these were the best of his band : 

Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear , 

And each scalp had a long tuft of hair , 

All the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw , 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulph , 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf; 

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey; 

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay 5 

Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

Lord Byron. 



352 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

FROM CHILDE HAROLD. 

SOLITUDE. 
I. 

To sit on rocks , to muse o'er flood and fell 7 

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene , 

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell , 

And mortal foot hath ne'er , or rarely been ; 

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen , 

With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean — 

This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 

Converse with Nature's charms , and view her stores unrolld 

II. 

But 'midst the crowd , the hum , the shock of men , 
To hear , to see , to feel , and to possess , 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us , none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
None that , with kindred consciousness endued , 
If we were not , would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd , follow'd , sought , and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this , this is solitude. 

Lord Byron. 



FROM DON JUAN. 

I. 

'Tis sweet to hear , 
At midnight, on the blue and moonlight deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier , 

By distance mellow'd , o'er the waters sweep ; 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear, 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 353 

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 
The rainbow , based on ocean, span the sky. 

II. 

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 

Tis sweet to know there is an 'eye will mark 
Our coming , and look brighter when we come ; 

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark , 
Or lull'd by falling waters , sweet the hum 

Of bees , the voice of girls , the song of birds , 

The lisp of children , and their earliest words. 

III. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes. 

In bacchanal profusion , reel to earth 
Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth ; 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

IV. 

Sweet is a legacy ; and passing sweet 

The unexpected death of' some old lady 
Or gentleman, of seventy years complete , 

Who've made « us youth » wait too — too long already 
For an estate , or cash , or country-seat , 

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its * 

Next owner for their double damn'd post obits. 

V. 

Tis sweet to win , no matter how , one's laurels , 
By blood or ink ; 'lis sweet to put an end 

45 



354 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 

Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 
Sweet is old wine in bottles , ale in barrels ; 

Dear js the helpless creature we defend 
Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 



HUDIBRAS'S RELIGION, 

For his religion , it was fit 

To match his learning and his wit : 

'Twas presbyterian true blue ; 

For he was of that stubborn crew 

Of errant saints , whom all men grant 

To be the true church militant ; 

Such as do build their faith upon 

The holy text of pike and gun ; 

Decide all controversies by 

Infallible artillery ; 

And prove their doctrine orthodox , 

By apostolic blows and knocks ; 

Call fire and sword , and desolation , 

A godly , thorough reformation , 

Which always must be carry'd on, 

And still be doing , never done ; 

As if religion were intended 

For nothing else but to be mended : 

A sect whose odd perversion lies 

In odd perverse antipathies ; 

In falling out with that or this , 

And finding somewhat still amiss; 

More peevish , cross , and splenetic , 

Than dog distract , or monkey sick. 

Compound for sins they are inclin'd to , 

By damning those they have no mind to 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Still so perverse and opposite , 

As if they worshipp'd God for spite ! 

The self- same thipg they will abhor 

One way , and long another for : 

Free will they one way disavow , 

Another, nothing else allow. 

All piety consists therein 

Tn them , in other men all sin : 

Rather than fail , they will defy 

That which they love most tenderly ; 

Quarrel with mince-pies , and disparage 

Their best, and dearest friend, plum-porridge: 

Fat pig and goose itself oppose; 

And blaspheme custard through the nose. 

Butler. 



355 



RHYME. 



A squire he had whose name was Ralph , 
That in th'adventure went his half, 
Though writers, for more stately tone, 
Do call him Ralpho , 'tis all one , 
And when we can with metre safe , 
We'll call him so ; if nof plain Ralph ; 
( For rhyme the rudder is of verses , 
With which like ships they steer their courses.) 

Butler. 



A WOODEN LEG. 



His leg then broke 
Had got a deputy of oak : 
For when a shin in fight is cropt 



356 



SELECT PIECES OF POET At. 



The knee with one of timber's propt , 
Esteem'd more honourable than the other , 
And takes place, though the younger brother. 

Butler. 



MILITARY MEN. 



For he was of that noble trade 
That demi-gods and heroes made, 
Slaughter, and knocking on the head, 
The trade to which they all were bred ; 
And is , like others , glorious , when 
Tis great and large, but base if mean. 

ButleA. 



self; 



So no man does himself convince 

By his own doctrine of his sins ; 

And though all cry down self, none means 

His own self in a literal sense. 

Butler , 



REASON FOR RUNNING AWAY. 

And therefore I , with reason , chose 
This stratagem t'amuse our foes. 
To make an honourable retreat , 
And wave a total sure defeat : 
For those that fly may fight again, 
Which he can never do that's slain. 

Butlea. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 35? 

PLANETARY INFLUENCE. 

As if the planet's first aspect 

The tender infant did infect 

In soul and body , and instil 

All future good and future ill ; 

Which, in their dark fatal'ties , lurking 

At destin'd periods fall a working , 

And break out , like the hidden seeds 

Of long diseases, into deeds , 

In friendships , enmities and strife , 

And all th'emergencies of life. 

There's but the twinkling of a star, 

Between a man of peace and war , 

A thief and justice , fool and knave 9 

A huffing officer and a slave , 

A crafty lawyer and pick-pocket , 

A great philosopher and a blockhead , 

A formal preacher and a player, 

A learn'd physician and man-slayer; 

As if man from the stars did suck 

Old age , diseases , and ill-luck , 

Wit , folly , honour , virtue , vice , 

Trade , travel , wine , disease and dice ; 

And draw, with the first air they breathe^ 

Battle and murder, sudden death. 

Are not these fine commodities 

To be imported from the skies , 

And vended here among the rabble. 

For staple goods arid warrantable? 

Like money by the Druids borrowed , 

In th'other world to be restored. 

ButleiC 



358 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

INVOCATION TO PARADISE LOST. 

Of man's first disobedience , and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree , whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world and all our woes , 
With loss of Eden , till one greater man 
Restore us , and regain the blissful seat , 

Sing heavenly muse 

I 

Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song , 
That with no middle flight intends to soar 
Above the Aonian mount , while it pursues 
Things uriattempted yet in prose or rhyme. 
And chiefly thou, Oh Spirit, that dost prefer 
Before all temples the upright heart and pure , 
Instruct me , for thou know'st ;....:. 

What in me is dark 

Illumine ; what is low , raise and support ; 
That to the hight of this great argument 
I may assert Eternal Providence , 
And justify the ways of God to man. 

Milton, 



DESCRIPTION OF SATAN. 

He above the rest 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent , 
Stood like a tower : his form had not yet lost 
All her original brightness, nor appeared 
Less than Arch-Angel ruined , and the excess 
Of glory obscured : as when the sun , new risen , 
Looks through the horizontal misty air , 
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon, 
In dim eclypse, disastrous twilight sheds 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 359 

On half the nations , and with fear of change , 
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, jet shone 
Above them all the Arch- Angel : but his face 
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched , and care 
Sat on his faded cheek , but under brows 
Of dauntless courage , and considerate pride 
Wailing revenge ; cruel his eye , but cast 
Signs of remorse and passion, to behold 
The fellows of his crime , the followers rather 
(Far other once beheld in bliss) condemned 
For ever now to have their lots in pain ; 
Millions of spirits for his faults amerced 
Of heaven , and from eternal splendours flung 
For his revolt. 

Milton. 



HELL. » 

A dungeon horrible on all sides round, 

As one great furnace flamed ; yet from those flames 

No light ; but rather darkness visible 

Served only to discover sights of woe , 

Regions of sorrow , doleful shades , where peace 

And rest can never dwell; hope never comes 

That comes to all ; but torture without end 

Still urges , and a fiery deluge , fed 

With ever burning sulphur unconsumed. 

Milton 



INVOCATION TO LIGHT. 

But thou 
Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, 
Or dim suffusion veiled. 



360 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

With the year 
Seasons return , but not to me returns 
Day , or the sweet approach of even or morn , 
Or sight of vernal bloom , or summer's rose , 
Or flocks , or herds , — or human face divine ; 
But cloud instead , and ever-during dark 
Surrounds me , from the cheerful ways of men 
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair 
Presented with a universal blank 
Of nature's works, to me expunged and raised, 
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
So much the rather thou , celestial Light ! 
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
Irradiate ; there plant eyes , all mist from thence 
Purge and disperse , that I may see and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight. 

Milton, 



ADAM AND EVE. 

Two of far nobler shape , erect and tall , 

God-like erect! 

For contemplation he and valour formed ; 

For softness she and sweet attractive grace ; 

He for God only , she for God in him : 

His fair large front and eye sublime declared 

Absolute rule ; and hyacinthine locks 

Round from his parted forelock manly hung 

Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad : 

She, as a veil , down to the slender waist 

Her unadorned golden tresses wore 

Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved 

As the vine curls her tendrils , which implied 

Subjection. 

Adam the goodliest man of men since born 

His sons , the fairest of her daughters Eve. 

Milton, 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY 



ADAM RELATES HIS FIRST SENSATIONS. 



m 



As new waked from soundest sleep, 
Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid; 
Straight toward Heaven my wondering eyes 1 turned , 
And gazed awhile the ample sky^ till, raised 
By quick instinctive motion , up I sprung , 
As thitherward endeavouring , and upright 
Stood on my feet : about me round I saw 
Hill , dale , and shady woods , and sunny plains , 
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams ; by these 
Creatures that lived and moved , and walked , or flew ; 
Birds on the branches warbling : all things smiled ; 
With fragrance and with joy my heart o'erflowed. 
Myself I then perused , and limb by limb 
Surveyed , and sometimes went , and sometimes ran 
With supple joints , as lively vigour led : 
But who I was, or where, or from what cause, 
Knew not : to speak I tried , and forthwith spake ; 
My tongue obeyed , and readily could name 
Whate'er I saw. Thou sun,, said I, fair light! 
And thou enlightened earth , so fresh and gay ! 
Ye hills and dales , ye rivers , woods and plains ! 
And ye that live and move , fair creatures ! tell , 
Tell , if you saw how came I thus , how here ? 
Not of myself; by some great Maker then, 
In goodness and in power preeminent : 
Tell me, how I may know him, how adore, 
From whom I have that thus I move and live , 
And feel that I am happier than I know. 
While thus I called , and strayed I knew not whither, 
From where I first drew air , and first beheld 
The happy light , when answer none returned , 
Oa a green shadv bank, profuse of flowers, 
Pensive I sal me down 5 there gentle sleep 

46 



*K)2 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

First found me , and with soft oppression seized 
^ My drowsed sense , untroubled , though I thought 
I then was passing to my former slate 
Invisible, and forthwith to dissolve. 

Milton. 



AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD, 

The curfew tolls the parting knell of day , 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea , 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way , 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight , 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds , 

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight , 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r , 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such, as wandering near her solitary bow 'r , 
Molest her ancient ^ solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that* yew-tree's shade , 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn , 

The swallow , twitt'ring from the straw-built shed , 

The cock's shrill clarion , or the echoing horn , 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

Nor children run to lisp their sire's return , 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share- 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 363 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their teams afield! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys , and destiny obscure \ 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry , the pomp of pow'r , 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await, alike, the inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault; 

If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise , 
Where , thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn , or animated bust , 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flatl'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands , that the rod of empire might have sway'd , 
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eye's her ample page , 
Rich with the spoils of time , did ne'er unroll^ 

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene , 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen , 
And waste its sweetness in the desert air. 

Some village Hampden , that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrants of his fields withstood ; 



304 



SELECT PIECESE OF POJLIIY'. 

Some miite inglorious Millon here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th'applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land , 

And read their history in a nation's eves, 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne , 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide , 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame , 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, 
With incense kindled at the Muses' flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 

Along the cool , sequester'd vale of life , 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect , 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh , 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd , 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name , their years , spell'd by th'unlelter'd muse , 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews , 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who , to dumb forgelfulness a prey , 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign' d , 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day , 
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring , look behind. 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies , 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 3(>5 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries ; 
Ev'n in our ashes live our wonted fires. 

For thee , who mindful of th'unhonour'd dead , 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If, chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit should enquire thy fate;. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

«Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

« Brushing . with hasty steps , the dews away , 
« To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

« There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
k That writhes its old fantastic roots so high , 

« His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch , 
« And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 

« Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
a Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

« Now drooping , woeful wan , like one forlorn , 

« Or craz'd with care , or cross'd in hopeless love. » 

One morn I miss'd him on the 'cuslom'd hill , 
Along the heath , and near his fav'rite tree ; 

Another came , nor yet beside the rill , 

Nor up the lawn , nor at the wood was he. 

i 
The next , with dirges due , in sad array , 

Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne , 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged Ihorn. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth , 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own, 



366 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Large was his 'bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to mis 'ry all he had , a tear ; 

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode ; 

There they alike in trembling hope repose, 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Gray; 



MoNOUR. 



By heav'ns ! melhinks it were an easy leap , 

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon ! 

Or dive into the bottom of the deep , 

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground , 

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks ! 

So he , that doth redeem her hence , might wear , 

Without co-rival , all her dignities. 

Shakspeare. 



REAL GRIEF. 



Seems , madam ! nay , it is ; I know not seems i 
'Tis not alone my inky cloak , good mother , 
Nor customary suits of solemn black , 
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath , 
No , nor the fruitful river in the eye ; 
Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage, 
Together with all forms , modes, shows of grief; 
That can denote me truly. These, indeed , seem , 
For they are actions that a man might play; 
But I have that within which pas^seth show ; 
These but the trappings and the suits of woe. 

Shakspeare: 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 367 

MERCY. 

The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 

It droppelh as the gentle dew from heaven 

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes, 

Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown ; 

The sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : 

But mercy is above the scepter'd sway , 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's , 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea , consider this , — 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy. 

Shakspeare . 



ON SLEEP. 



, gentle sleep 

Nature's soft nurse , how have I frighted thee , 

That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down, 

And steep my senses in forgetfulness ! 

Why rather , sleep , ly'st thou in smoky cribs , 

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee , 

And Jhush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber 

Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great , 

Under the canopies of costly state , 

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody ? 



3G8 SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

thou dull god , why ly'st thou with the vile 
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, 
A watch-case to a common larum-bell? 
Will thou , upon the high and giddy mast , 
Seal up the ship-boy's (eyes , and rock his brains , 
In cradle of the rude , imperious surge ; 
And in the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the lop , 
Curling their monstrous heads , and hanging them 
With deaf'ning clamours in the slipp'ry shrowds, 
That with the hui ly , death itself awakes? 
Canst thou , partial sleep ! give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ? 
And in the calmest and the stillest night, 
Wilh all appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king? 

Shakspeare. 



THE WORLD COMPARED TO A STAGE. 

All the world's a stage , 
^And all the men and women merely players ; 
They have their exits, and their entrances ; 
And, one man in his lime plays many parts , 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; 
And then the whining school-boy , with his satchel , 
And shining morning face , creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. And then , the lover , 
Sighing like a furnace , with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then , the soldier , 
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard , 
Jealous in honour , sudden and quick in quarrel ; 
Seeking the bubble reputation 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 3Gi) 

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, 
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd , 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances, 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on'* nose , and pouch on's side ; 
His youthful hose , well-sav'd , a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes 
x\nd whistles in the sound. Last scene of all , 
That ends this strange eventful history , 
Is second childishness , and mere oblivion : 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 

Shakspeare. 



LIFE AND DEATH WEIGHED. 

To be , or not to be ? that is the question ; 
Whether 'lis nobler in the mind to suffer 
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles , 
And, by opposing, end them? — To die, — to sleep, - 
No more ; — and , by a sleep , to say we end 
The heart-ache , and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to , — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, — to sleep; — 
To sleep! perchance to dream: — ay, there's the rub; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come , 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil , 
Must give us pause. There's the respect , 
That makes calamity of so long life : 
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time , 
The oppressor's wrong , the proud man's contumely , 

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The pangs of dcspis'd love , the law's delay , 
The insolence of office, and Ihe spurns 
That palient merit of the unworthy takes , 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear 7 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 
But that the dread of something after death, — 
The undiscovered country , from whose bourn 
No traveller returns , — puzzles the will ; 
And makes us rather bear those ills we have , 
Than fly to others that we know not of? 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought: 
And enlerprizes of great pith and moment, 
With this regard , their currents turn awry , 
And lose the name of action. — 

SflAKSPEARE. 



OTHELLO'S RELATION OF HIS COURTSHIP TO THE 

SENATE. 

Most potent , grave , and reverend signors , 

My very noble and approv'd good masters ; 

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter. 

It is most true ; true , I have married her ; 

The very head and front of my offending 

Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in my speech, 

And little blest with the soft phrase of peace ; 

For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith , 

'Till now some nine moons wasted , they have us'd 

Their dearest action in the tented field ; 

And little of this great world can I speak, 

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, 

And therefore little shall I grace my cause , 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

In speaking for myself. Yet by your gracious patience ; 

I will a round unvarnish'd lale deliver , 

Of my whole course of love. What drugs, what charms, 

What conjuration , and what mighty magic , 

(For such proceeding am I charg'd withal) 

I won his daughter with. 

Her father lov'd me , oft invited me ; 
Still question 'd me the story of my life , 
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes. 
That I have pass'd, 

I ran it through , even from my boyish days , 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances , 
Of moving accidents, by flood and field; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i'the imminent deadly breach ; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence , 
And with it all my travels' history. These things to hear, 
Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
But still the house atfairs would draw her thence ; 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch , 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 
Devour up my discourse : which I observing , 
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means 
To <lraw from her a prayer of earnest heart , 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 
Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
But not inlentively : I did consent ; 
And often did beguile her of her tears, 
When I did speak of some distressful stroke , 
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs ; 
She swore in faith 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange — 
'Twas pitiful , 'twas wondrous pitiful — 
She wish'd she had not heard it, vet she wish'd 



371 



372 



SELECT PIECES OF POETP.Y. 



That heaven had made her such a man: — she thanked me 

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story , 

And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ; 

She lov'd me for the dangers I had past , 

And I lov'd her that she did pity them. 



S. 



AKSPEARE. 



MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY. 

Is this a dagger, which I sec before me, 

The handle toward my hand ? Come , let me clutch thee 

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 

Art thou not , fatal vision , sensible 

To feeling as to sight? or art thou but 

A dagger of the mind ; a false creation , 

Proceeding from the heat oppressed brain ? 

I see thee yet , in *form as palpable 

As that which I now draw. 

Thou marshal's! me the way that I was going ; 

And such an instrument 1 was to use. 

Mine eyes arc made the fools o'the other senses, 

Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still; 

And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood, 

Which was not so before — There's no such thing : 

It is the bloody business , which informs 

Thus to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one half world , 

Nature seems dead , and wicked dreams abuse 

The cuitain'd sleep ; now witchcraft celebrates 

Pale Hecate's offerings ; and wilher'd murder 

Alarum'd by his sentinel, ihe wolf, 

Whose howl's his watch , thus with his stealthy pace, 

With Tarquin's ravishing strides , towards his design 

Moves like a ghost. - Thou sure and Grm-set earth, 



SKLKCT PIECES OF POETHY. 37»> 

Hear not my steps , which way they walk, for fear 
Thy ^ery stones prate of my whcre-abool. 

While I threat, he lives : 
Words to the heat of deeds loo cold breath gives. 

(A hell rings.) 

I go, and it is done; the hell invites me, 
Flear it not , Duncan ; for it is a knell 
That summons thee to heaven, or io hell. 

SkAKSPEAUE. 



THE HOUSE OF RICHESSE. 

That houses forme within was rude and slrong , 

Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky cliftc , 

From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong 

Embost with massy gold of glorious guifte, 

And with rich metal) loaded every rifle , 

That heavy mine they did seeme to threalt ; 

And over them x\raehne high did liTt 

Her cunning web, and spred her subtile nelt , 

Enwrapped in fowle smoke and clouds more black than ielt 

But roofe , and floorc , and w alls were all of gold , 

But overgrowne wilh dust and old decay , 

And hid in darknesse , that none could behold 

The hew thereof : for vew of chereful dav 

Did never in that House itself display, 

But a faint shadow of uncertein light ; 

Such as a lamp , w hose life does fade away ; 

Or as the moone , cloalhed wilh cloudy night , 

Does show to him that walkes in fear and sad affright. 

In all that rowme was nothing to be scene 
But huge great yron chests, and coffers slrong, 
All bard with double bends , that none could weene 
Them to enforce by violence or wrong ; 



374 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



On every side they placed were along , 

Bnl all the ground Avith seuls was scattered 

And dead mens bones, which round about were flung, 

Whose lives , it seemed , whilome Ihere were shed , 

And their vile carcases now left unburied. 

They forward passe ; ne Guyon yet spoke word , 
Till thai Ihey came unto an yron dore, 
Which to them opened of his own accord , 
And shewed of riehessc such exceeding store , 
As eie of man did never see before, 
Ne ever could within one place be fovvud , 
Though all the wealth , which is or was of yore 7 
Could galherd be through all the world arownd 
And that above were added to that under growud. 

Thence, forward he him ledd and shortly brought 
Unto another rowme , whose dore forthright 
To him did open as it had been taught : 
Therein an hundred raunges weren i pight, 
And hundred fournaccs all burning bright, 
liy every fournacc many Feends did byde , 
Deformed creatures , horrible in sight ; 
And every Feend his busie paines applyde. 
To melt the golden metall , ready to be tryde. 

One with great bellowes gathered filling ayre, 
Artd with forst wind the fewell did inflame, 
Another did the dying bronds repayre 
With yrou tongs, and sprinkled oft the same 
With liquid waves, tiers Vulcans rage to tame, 
Who , mavstring them , renewd his former heat : 
Some scumd the drosse that from the metall came ; 
Some stird the molten owre with ladles great ; 
And every one did 2 swincke and every one did sweat. 

Spensek. 



Placed. - Labour 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. .>/« 

DESCRIPTION OF THE MONSTER. 

By this, Ihe droadPtill Beast drew nigh to hand, 

Halfe living and halfe fooling in his haste, 

That with his largenesse measured much land , 

And made wide shadow under his huge waste, 

As mountaine doth the valley overcaste. 

Approching nigh, he reared high afore 

His bodv monstrous, horrible and vaste ; 

Which to increase his wondrous greatness more , 

Was swoln with wrath and poyson ? and with bloody gore 

And over all with brasen scales w r as armd , 

Like plated cole of Steele, so couched neare 

That nought mote perce ; ne might his corse be harmd 

With dint of swerd, nor push of pointed speare. 

Which, as an eagle, seeing pray appeare, 

His aery plumes doth rouze full rudely 4 dight; 

So shaked he , that horror was to heare : 

For, as the clashing of an armor bright, 

Such noyse his rouzed scales did send unto the knight. 

His flaggy winges , when forth he did display , 
Were like two sayles , in which the hollow wynd 
Is gathered full , and worketh speedy way : 
And eke the pennes , that did diis pineons bynd , 
Were like mayne yardes wit/h flying canvas lynd ; 
With which when as him list the ayre to beat, 
And there by force unwonted passage fynd , 
The cloudes before him fledd for terror great , 
And all the hevens stood still amazed with his threat. 

His huge long tayle , wownd up in hundred foldes , 

Does overspred his long bras-scaly back , 

Whose wreathed 2 boughtes when ever he unfoldes , 

1 Adorned. 2 Folds. 



376 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 



And I hick entangled knots adown does slack , 

Bespotled as wilh shieldes of read and blacke , 

It swecpelh all the land behind him farre, 

And of three furlongs does but little lacke, 

And at the point two stinges infixed arre, 

Bolh deadly sharp , thai sharpest Steele exceeden farre. 

But stinges and sharpest Steele did far exceed 
The sharpnesse of his cruel rending clawes: 
Dead was it sure , as sure as death indeed , 
What ever thing does touch his ravenous pawes , 
Or that within his reach he ever drawes. 
But his most hideous head my tongue to tell 
Does tremble ; for his deep devouring iawes 
Wyde gaped , like the griesly mouth of hell , 
Through which into his darke abysse all ravi fell. 

And that more wondrous was , in either iaw 

Three ranckes of yron teeth enraunged were , 

In which yell trickling blood, and gobbets raw, 

Of late devoured bodies did appcare ; 

The sight thereof bredd cold congealed fearc : 

Which to increase , and all at once to kill , 

A cloud of smoothering smoke, and sulphure scare, 

Out of his stinking gorge forth steemed still, 

That all the ayre about with smoke and stench did fill. 

His blazing eyes 7 like two bright shining shieldes , 
Did burne with wrath , and sparkled living fyre : 
As two broad beacons, sett in open ficldes , 
Send forth their flames far oft' to every shyre , 
And warning give, that enemies conspyre , 
Wilh fire and sword the region to invade ; 
So flam'd his eyne w ith rage and rancorous yre : 
But far within , as in a hollow glade , 
Those glaring lampcs were sett, that made a dreadful shade. 

Spenser. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 377 



THE MONK 



A monk tber was, l a fayre for the maistrie, 

An outrider , that loved 2 venerie ; 

A manly man , to ben an abbot able. 

Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable : 

And whan he rode , men mighte his bridel here 

Gingeling in a whistling wind as clere, 

And 3 eke as loude , as doth the chapell belle , 

There 4 as this lord was keper of the celle. 

The reule of Seint Maure and of seint Beneit , 
Because that it was olde and s somedele streit, 
This 6 ilke monk lette olde thinges pace , 
And held after the newe world the trace. 
He yave not of the text a 7 pulled hen, 
That saith , that hunters ben not holy men ; 
Ne that a monk , when he is 8 rekkeles , 
Is like to a fish that is w&terles, 
This is to say , a monk out of his cloistre. 
This ilke text held he not worth an oistre. 
And he thought his opinion was good. 
What shulde he sludie , and make himselven 9 wood , 
Upon a book in cloistre alway to pore, 
Or 10 swinken with his hondes , and laboure ; 
As Austin 1£ bit? how shal the world be served? 
Let Austin have his swink to him reserved. 
Therfore he was a 12 prickasoure a right. 
Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight : 
Of 13 pricking and of hunting for the hare 
Was all his lust , for no cost wolde he spare. 



Probably a good horseman; maistrie means skill, management. 
2 Hunting. 3 Also. 4 Where. s Somewhat. 6 Same. 
7 A hen with its feathers pulled off was supposed not capable 

of laying eggs. 8 Careless, perhaps disorderly. 9 Mad. 
10 Work. " Biddeth. ,2 Hard rider. 1S Hard riding. 

48 



378 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY, 



I saw his sieves * purliled at the honcl 
With 2 gris , and that the finest of the lond. 
And for to fasten his hood under his chinne , 
He hadde of gold y wrought a curious pinne. 
A love-knolte in the greter end ther was. 
His hed was balled , and shone as any glas , 
And eke his face , as it hadde ben anoint. 
He was a lord ful fat and in good point. 
His eyen stepe, and rolling in his hed, 
That stemed as a forneis of a led. 
His boles souple , his hors in gret eslat , 
Now certainly he was a fayre prelat. 
He was not pale as a 3 forpined gost. 
A fat swan loved he best of any rost. 
His palfry was as broune as is a bery. 

Chaucer. 



THE POURE PERSQNE. 

A good man ther was of religioun , 
That was a poure Persone of the loun : 
But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 
His parishens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was , and wonder diligent , 
And in adversite ful patient : 
And 4 swiche he was 6 ypreved often 6 sithes. 
Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes , 



1 Fringed. 2 A sort of fur. 5 Tormented. * Such. 
* Turned out upon trial. 6 Times. 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

But rather wolde he * yeven out of doute , 

Unto his poure parishens aboute , 

Of his offring , and eke of his substance. 

He coude in litel thing have suffisance. 

Wide was his parish , and houses fer asonder , 

But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder, 

In sikenesse and in mischief to visite 

The ferrest in his parish, 2 moche and lite; 

Upon his fete , and in his hand a staf. 

This noble ensample to his shepe he 5 yaf, 

That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. 

Out of the gospel he the wordes caught , 

And this figure he added yet therto , 

That if golde ruste, what shuld iren do? 

For if a preest be foule , on whom we trust , 

No wonder is a 4 lewed man to rust : 

Wei ought a preest ensample for to 6 yeve , 

By his clenenesse , how his shepe shulde live. 

He selte not his benefice to hire , 
And lelte his shepe acombred in the mire , 
And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules , 
To seken him a chanterie for soules , 
Or with a brotherhede to be withold : 
But dwelt at home , and kepte wel his fold , 
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. 
He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie. 
And though he holy were, land vertuous, 
He was to sinful men not 6 dispitous., 
Ne of speche dangerous ne 7 digne 
But in his teching discrete and benigne. 
To drawen folk to heven , with fairenesse , 
By good ensample , was his besinesse : 



1 Give. 2 Great and small. s Gave. 4 Unlearned. s Give. 
6 Angry to excess. 7 Disdainful, 



379 



380 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY 



But it were any persone obstinat, 
What so he were of highe, or low estat, 
Him wolde he snibben sharply for the * nones. 
A better preest I 2 trowe that nowher non is. 
He waited after no pomp ne reverence , 
Ne maked him no spiced conscience, 
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
He taught, but first he folwed it himselve. 

Chaucer. 



1 Occasion. a Believe. 



FINIS 



INDEX. 



ANECDOTES, HISTORICAL, LITERARY AND 
FACETIOUS. 

Page. 

Justice superior to valour. — Agesilaus 1 

Garrulity. — Zeno 1 

Gaming. — Plato 1 

The citizen 1 

Good effects of medicine. — Moliere 2 

Easy and difficult. — Thale's 2 

On vows. — Sigismond 2 

Brave Athenian 2 

Useless hurry 3 

Real power. — Duke of Orleans 3 

Magnanimous answer. — Sigismond 3 

Gallant remark. — Fontenelle 3 

A legacy by anticipation 3 

True courage. . 4 

Fenelon and Bossuet 4 

Slow poison. — Fontenelle 4 

Cassar 4 

A mistake in value 5 

Good qualities ill applied. . ... 5 

Plebeian pleasantry 5 

Some comfort 5 

Use of philosophy. . . 5 

Lord Russel 6 

Double price. — Socrates 6 

The visit. — Boileau 6 

Buchanan and James 1 6 

Addison on his death-bed 7 

Lord Chesterfield 7 



382 



INDEX 



Page. 

Never mind me. — Jristotle 7 

Progress of avarice. — Swift, Lord Bolingbroke. . . 7 

The impatient patient 8 

Incredulity 8 

Military bon mot 8 

Dominico 8 

Two sides. — Cromwell 9 

Mock gravity. — Locke 9 

Great ministers. — Waller, James II 9 

The hat 9 

Royal compliment. — Henry IF. 10 

Complaisance in a painter 10 

Proselytism 10 

A question answered 10 

The great book and the little one 11 

Humanity. — Duke de la Rochefoucault 11 

Hot and cold 11 

Remark of Demosthenes 12 

A pennyworth of wit 12 

Justice. — Voltaire 12 

The rebuke. — Dr. Johnson 12 

Politeness 13 

Simplicity. . . 13 

Friends at court. . 13 

The king upon all fours. — Henry IF. 14 

The precaution 14 

A marshal and a monarch 14 

Punishment of a bad husband. — Sterne. 14 

An alphabetical pun 15 

American curiosity. — Franklin 15 

A hint. 15 

Turkish gallantry 16 

Pupil of Zeno 16 

Tallow 16 

The doctor and his patients 16 

A terrible fright 17 

Delicate reproof 17 

The doctor doctored 17 

A spartan bon-mot 18 

Gibbon 18 



INDEX. 383 

Page, 

Early poets. — Cowley, Pope 18 

A courtier's reply. — Sir Walter Raleigh. ... 19 

Poets irritable 19 

Good manners 19 

Job for a doctor 20 

Maxims of Tbales 20 

Excellent wbiskey . . 20 

Heroism in a boy. — Admiral Shovel. . ... .21 

French gaiety 21 

Humane driver rewarded. — Alexander 21 

Misplaced clemency. — Louis XIV. . . - . . . .22 

Vox populi. — Cromwell 22 

Desertion. — Frederick the great 22 

Fiction and truth. — Waller 23 

Turkish justice 23 

Dr. Garth and the duchess of Marlborough. ... 23 

A definition. 24 

Presence of mind. 24 

No sooner said than done 24 

Poetical circumstances. — Thompson 25 

Death of Otway . . 25 

Unfortunate accident. — Gay 25 

Ben Jonson 26 

Anecdote of Columbus - . 26 

A sovereign and a schoolmaster 26 

Lie upon lie. — Cibber 27 

Colours saved. . 27 

Repartee of Dante. . . . .27 

Justice j 28 

Rustic politeness . 28 

Poverty of the learned. — Cervantes, Camoens, Tasso. 29 

Sir Thomas More's Utopia 29 

Sir Philip Sydney. . 29 

Queen Elisabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh 30 

Majesty in the wrong. — Louis XIF. . . . . . 30 

Fidelity 30 

The dream interpreted. 31 

The famished Arabian 31 

An embarrassing question 32 

Comparative honesty . 32 



384 INDEX. 

Page. 

Noted fool 3^ 

Duke of Albemarle 33 

Universal humanity 33 

Spirited answer .33 

Asses' heads 34 

Origin of Paradise regained. — Milton 34 

Fiction like truth. — De Foe 35 

Gravity. — Sir Isaac Newton. . 35 

Nohle resolution 35 

Corneille .36 

Sir Thomas More and Henry Fill 36 

Castles in the air. — JVilkins 37 

Hat and wig 37 

Chaucer 37 

Lord Bacon 38 

Magna charta recovered. — Cotton 38 

Even temper. — Newton 39 

The courtier cut short 39 

The wardrobe 40 

A place 40 

A receipt to kill rats. — Quin 40 

Witty apology 41 

The liar rebuked. 41 

Cunning answer 42 

True rank. — Louis XI 42 

Louis XII and Mazarin 43 

Ingratitude. — Sheridan 43 

Duties of a judge and counsel 44 

Spenser and Sir Walter Raleigh 44 

True content. — Berkeley 44 

A bargain 45 

Parental sacrifice. ; 45 

The biter bit 46 

Smuggling. 46 

Staunch reply 47 

Compliment. — Prior . 47 

Sporting anecdote. . . 48 

Intrepidity rewarded 48 

Russian discipline 49 

The considerate debtor 49 



INDEX. 385 

Page. 

Resenting a blow 50 

Queen Caroline and Whislon. . 50 

Abstraction. — Newton 51 

The note of interrogation — Pope .51 

A student in Spanish. — Rowe 52 

Filial love 52 

Royal reward. — Frederick the great .53 

Origin of newspapers 53 

No distinction at the gallows 54 

Respect to old men 54 

Friendly warmth. — Addison - . .55 

Disobedience of orders . 55 

A prime minister in a predicament 56 

Singular fidelity of a portuguese nobleman. . . . 56 

Absence of mind 57 

Military devotion 58 

Strange forgetfulness. — Newton .58 

Noble criticism. — Pope, Lord Halifax, Dr. Garth. 59 
Politeness. — Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale. ... 59 

Shakspeare's theatre. 60 

The emperor Joseph 60 

Shut the door. — Swift 61 

An under charge. — Joseph II. . . .'.':. . . .62 

Which is the king. — Henry IF". 62 

The freethinker punished. — Mallet 63 

Value of manuscripts 64 

A friend in need. — Thomson and Quin 64 

Heroism. — Admiral Keppel 65 

Difference between economy and avarice. . . . . 66 
A courtier's query. . . . . . . . '. . . .67 

Death of Sir Walter Raleigh .68 

Fasting and praying. — Swift. ..... . . 69 

Courtly picture. — Henry IV. . . . . . . .69 

The puppy. — Sterne 70 

A duel. — Young 72 

SELECT PIECES OF PROSE. 

The Whistle Franklin 77 

On castles in the air Guardian 79 

The folly of disputing on 

trifles Miss Edgeworth. ... 81 

49 



386 INDEX. 

Page. 

To the Countess of * * * . . . Lady M. W.Montague. . 83 

Sincerity Tillotson 86 

The ephemera. Freethinker 89 

An enumeration of superstitions 

in the country . Connaisseur 92 

True honour Blair 97 

The judgments of Rhadaman- 

thus Addison 100 

Resignation Bolingbroke 104 

The vulture's lessons. . . . . D r Johnson 105 

Character of Elisabeth. . . . Hume 108 

Robinson Crusoe's first reli- 
gious inspiration De Foe. .-. Ill 

The age of chivalry. .... Gibbon. ........ 123 

The humorous picture. ... Smollet. 125 

The captive Sterne. 127 

On the inhabitants of Lilliput. . Swift 128 

Endeavour to please and you 

can scarcely fail of success. . Lord Chesterfield. . . 136 

Speculation in America. • . . Marry at 140 

Omar D r Johnson 142 

Study ( Bacon 145 

The story of a disabled soldier. Goldsmith. ..... .147 

Effects of sympathy in the 

distresses of others Burke 153 

Manner of making war amongst 

the American savages , and 

treatment of their prisoners. Robertson 155 

Introductory chapter to Tom 

Jones Fielding 161 

The adventure of the little 

antiquary W. Irving. 165 

The fortunes of Martin Wal- 

deck Sir W. Scott. ..... 170 



SELECT SCENES OF COMEDIES. 

Scenes from False delicacy 189 

the Conscious Lovers. . Steele 191 

the West Indian. . . . Cumberland 196 



INDEX. 387 

Page. 

Scenes from the Clandestine 

Marriage Garrick . 202 

the Good-natured man. . Goldsmith. 208 

the Man of the World. Macklin 215 

the Provoked Husband. Colley Cibber 222 

i the School for scandal. Sheridan 241 

Every man in his hu- 
mour Ben Jonson. • 267 

Henry IV. ..... Shakspeare 272 



SELECT PIECES OF POETRY. 

Description of an epigram '• '281 

Forgetfulness • 281 

Advantage of silence 281 

A retort. 281 

Obligation cancelled 282 

Killing time. 282 

On a compass 282 

On a bee stifled in honey. 282 

Be rough with the rough. . . . . . . . 283 

On waste. 283 

On content 283 

Tit for tat • • • 284 

The sluggard. Watts 284 

The Ant D°. • • • 285 

The monkey who had seen the 

world Gay 286 

The young lady and the look-f 

ing-glass. Wilkie 288 

The Chameleon. - Merrick. ....... 289 

The beggar's petition 291 

We are seven Wordsworth .293 

The common lot • •' Montgomery. ..... 295 

The sultana's remonstrance. • Miss Landon 296 

Lord John of the East. . . . Johanna Baillie. . . . 297 
Mary the maid of the inn. . Southey. ....... 302 

The burial of Sir John Moore .306 

The country bumpkin and the 

razor seller . Peter Pindar. .... 307 



388 INDEX. 

Page. 

The village curate Goldsmith 308 

From Cooper's hill Denham 310 

Reflection on man Young 311 

Ozymandias. ........ P. B. Shelley. .... 312 

Description of a hag. .... Otway. , 312 

An epitaph Prior. 313 

From friendship in absence. . Cowley 315 

the Ancient mariner. . Coleridge 315 

' the Lay of the last 

minstrel Sir W. Scott. .... 321 

the Peri. Moore 329 

the Task. (Slavery). . Cowper 333 

Peter Grimes. (Confes- 



sion on his death-bed). . . Crabbe 335 

the Seasons. (Fishing) . Thomson 338 

Essay on criticism. (Na- 



ture and rules the same). . Pope 339 

(Bold 



flights) D° 340 

(A little 



learning dangerous). . . . D° , 340 

(Style) . D°. . . . . 340 

( Imita- 
tive harmony) D°. 341 

(IK) . D°. 341 



— — Essay on man. . . . D°. 341 

Mac Flecknoe. . . Dryden 343 

Alexander's feast D° 344 

From the Bride of Abydos. . Lord Byron. . . . 348 

(Zu- 

leika) . . D°. ... 348 

the Corsair. (The boat- 



song) D°. ... 349 

the Siege of Corinth | D°. ... 350 



Childe Harold. (Sol 



tude) D°. ... 352 

Don Juan. ... D°. ... 352 



Hudibras. ( His reli- 
gion) ... Butler. ..... 354 

(Rhyme). . . D°. ..... 355 



INDEX. 



389 



From Hudibras ( A wooden 

leg). . . . . . . . Butler, 

(Military men). D°. 

. (Self). . . . D°. 

■ — — ^ — (Reason for run- 
ning away) D°. 

(Planetary in- 



fluence) D c 

Paradise lost. (Invoca- 



tion) Milton. 

(Description of 

Satan). D°. 

i (Hell). . . D°. 

■ (Invocation to 

light) D°. 

■ (Adam and Eve). D°. 

(Adam relates 

his first sensations). . . D°. 

An elegy in a country church- 
yard Gray. 

Honour. . 

Real grief. 

Mercy. . 

On sleep. 



Shakspeare. 
D\ 
D°. 
D°. 



The world compared to a stage. D°. 

Life and death weighed. . D°. 

Othello's relation. . . . . D°. 

Macbeth/s soliloquy. h . . D°. 

From the Faerie Queene. (The 

house of riches). . . . Spenser. 

■ (Descrip- 
tion of the monster). . . D°. 



the Canterbury tales 

(The monke) Chaucer. 

(The 

poure persone D°. 



Page. 

. 355 
. 356 
. 356 

. 356 

. 357 

. 358 



. 359 
. 359 

. 359 
. 360 

. 361 



. 362 
. 366 
. 366 
. 367 
. 367 
. 368 
. 369 
. 370 
. 372 



373 
375 

377 
378 



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